I originally posted this in my journal, and I thought I would share with you ladies. What's the saddest, most depressing experience you've ever had at a strip club? Here's mine.
There's a strip club, notorious in my town, for being the worst of the worst. They say it's where strippers go to die. It's the end-of-the-road for anyone who works here; a truly horrible place. Its reputation isn't aided by the fact it's also in the sleazier area of the town, an area once (still?) well-known for its rampant prostitution and other unsavory activities.
I thought people were joking when they said it was two double-wides smashed together. A neighboring decrepit trailer park undoubtedly attracts the majority of the club's clientèle, and after last night's adventure, I'm convinced that the heart of the building was indeed constructed by the owner's dilapidated mobile palace.
There were a ton of cars in the parking lot, but for what business they were patronizing, I didn't know. The painted siding of the club looked fresh, decorated with specials and banners, but once turning that corner down the soiled, dingy ramp into what I'll affectionately refer to as "Stripper's Graveyard," all hope was lost. This was truly a terrible place.
There were some men clustered in the foyer, bored, and any number of darts clutched in their hands. I couldn't tell a bouncer from a barfly. Someone called out for IDs, and a man with a baseball cap seemed to be the identified fellow in charge. We followed him to a side table that had a lamp for reading cards, right in front of a wide entrance to the bar and stage. It would be noted upon leaving, that this area was widely unattended to, and any young kid could easily run in (but would surely want to run out soon thereafter).
One of my friends was psyched, because as the stunning alcoholic that he is, he knew Stripper's Graveyard had the cheapest, crappiest beer on tap. "Eight dollars a pitcher!" he would exclaim. But his hopes were dashed like a drunken stripper crashing head first into the meat rack, when the friendly bartender said that PBR was now $14. Prices had certainly gone up, but surely not the quality of anything in the whole vicinity. We found ourselves a sticky table within viewing range of the stage, and a plastic pitcher with three mismatched cups was delivered.
It wasn't long before I realized one of the most unsettling aspects. We were holding a conversation - easily. There were no exceedingly loud speakers to compete with, nor an enthusiastic DJ narrating the whole experience. It was revealed, after a song or two, that the master control for the music was backstage that was run by whichever girl was dancing on-stage. Before her song ended, she would jump up, in various states of undress, and disappear through a narrow doorway. Then, either the music would stop, or we were treated to five-second samples of old rock and booty-poppin' rap, until she scrolled through whatever nightmarish playlist was preloaded on some creaky, old computer.
It was like a slow-moving, ass-gyrating, jiggly, horrific car wreck that was glacially unfolding on the sad excuse of a dance stage. In the studded, metal, semi-reflective wall, one couldn't exactly see their miserable reflection, but instead, any images or light was contorted indecipherable by the decades-old pimples of the silver paneling - an adequate metaphor for the experience.
My eyes carefully watched the few women that were strolling, strutting, and lounging about the place. The air was sickly - a strange mixture of hopelessness and cigarettes, even though smoking indoors was banned last year. This scent undeniably emanated from all of them - yes, the 250-pound, post-pregnancy 35-year-old who was robotically kneading her sagging breasts to an unresponsive crowd, to the skeletal, likely-a-former-or-recovering crack addict whose smoky, croaky voice betrayed her and revealed her age to be much closer to sixty, than thirty. Even the moderately attractive young girl, whose ass would be discreetly grazed by the man she was playing pool with and her angry looks that did nothing; there, there was the utter surrender and sadness, as well.
I wasn't sure if it's the medicine I've been on to combat a sinus infection, or the taste of that terrible beer in my mouth, but I felt a creeping sickness rise up in my throat. I realized the more that I people-watched, the sadder and frustrated I felt.
There was the ghetto-trash guy with the obscenely ugly and fake grill, who looked not a day past 20, and was the best dressed man in the joint, aside from the greasy, creepy old man sitting in the darkness, wearing an old ascot and grasping a handled mug. A balding, loud man wearing a Disneyland jersey had glared at my boyfriend and my roommate when they went up to the meat rack, and hissed to the girl, "Hurry back." And there were various other members of society, from the unassuming, mousy men to the round-bellied, obnoxious goat who was glorious in his manliness as he commanded the attention of two uninterested strippers. But all shared a similar, lackluster, dull glint in their eyes, a feeling that was evident in all the girls who worked there.
I tried to entertain myself by watching the dancers, unable to ignore the guys I had come with. They were rating their experience, remembering one glory day of 75% - some magical, unrepeatable evening where near 3 out of every 4 strippers at this club had met the standards of decent attraction and sexual appeal. Then, it was collectively realized that this was Saturday, a day that should have the A-team out, a day where clubs are packed, and instead the club's proud display were the prima donnas that could have easily been selected from their kin who walk the streets outside. There was not a doubt in my mind: those cushioned chairs that dutifully lined the dark walls of the club were the chairs where the extras came, because there would be no feasible way these women could ever make a living with the few George Washingtons that were thrown their way.
The more we saw, the more I wanted to get out of there. I tried my best to enjoy the gin and tonic, with the microscopic lime wedge that was skewered on a red plastic stick and floating limply in my tumbler. But either the water, or the gin was bad, or the environment was so sickening, I couldn't bear to drink anymore. I felt unclean, tainted, and had the urge to run, as if this club was contagious.
A stripper in a fishnet body suit and heels walked by, her dark nipples restricted by the black thread; I realized she was collecting abandoned drinks. So not only did they dance on a pole that was unsecured and wobbly, on a stage where they set their own music, in a club where there's probably the highest per capita handjob exports, they even had to take orders and bus tables. They were truly glorified bar maids, who happened to take off their clothes and roll around on the filthy stage wearing sneakers and ruffled granny panties.
The feeling was urgent, and three of us prodded the fourth to hurry up and finish his beer so we could get out. Our roommate had never been to a strip club before, and this was truly the worst introduction. We hurried to the car, slipping out through an empty foyer and got into the car. We drove to the biggest, most famous strip club in the city, which was absolutely packed.
We found a table near the stage, as there were easily a hundred people in the club. The music was great, the drinks were strong and palatable, and the girls came in many shapes and sizes - all were beautiful and talented. A bachelorette party was there that night, and the lucky bride-to-be was stripped down, laid on a velvety block, and proceeded to be rubbed, kissed, touched and grinded against by four gorgeous women.
As I watched a variety of women perform splits, bends, and even one doing an incredible breakdance in the nude, my mind drifted to the sadness of Stripper's Graveyard. None of those women would ever experience men crowding up at the meat rack, because all of the seats were taken. None of them would have adoring patrons ball up dollar bills and rocket them across the room at the stage. None would roll around in a shower of money, their bodies glistening in the lights and getting genuine applause at the end of a set.
No, that was the end of the road. Perhaps some of them had touched that once before, but if any of them had experienced glory days, they would have best stopped stripping before now. Before they were beyond their prime, before they would have been viewed as "sad and pathetic" instead of "beautiful and feminine" by the men who frequent this place, before they would have to relegate themselves to the life in the double-wide trailer strip club.



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I am absolutely delighted.

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