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2006-03-13 || 10:23 p.m. || i was going to suggest roller skating. || i forgot to tell you i went to a strip club for the first time. it was the maiden voyage of our adventure club, suggested by the junior vice president, a girl i have gotten to know well enough to lie on the carpet uninvited in her office while she takes personal calls on her cell phone. the suggestion wasn't initially made in seriousness. it was a game of chicken: we, the young wide-eyed junior members of the club vs. the acting chairman and president, a man in his 60s who had taken a liking to us and the swing of our skirts. he is charming if not lecherous. we had a brief verbal affair back when i was the receptionist. he is an author. he was once married to the daughter of a 1930's movie starlet. he played pro ball and gave up drinking. he asked for my email address in the parking lot after work one day and later wrote furtive emails regarding the junior vice president's suggestion, and suddenly we found we simply couldn't back out. our evening was split up into three parts. he met us at our favorite happy hour bar wearing an outfit he previously mentioned as having to plan out for the occasion: jeans, a guallavera (most likely ironed by his wife), and dress shoes. this was the test to see if it felt like we were entertaining our creepy out-of-town uncle. this was the trial run to see if there would be enough to say, if he would invite us over to his home, if there was a high chance for our having to end any future meetings. he bought us drinks and ordered soda water for himself. he tucked one of the jr. vp's cigarettes behind his ear and said he didn't miss smoking cigarettes so much as smoking weed. he told us stories we've heard before. he didn't touch our knees under the table and kept our names straight. he was charming and dashing and told us secrets about our boss. he took us out to a dinner at a fancy french brasserie. we talked for thirty-seven minutes before opening our menus; the waiter stopped trying after a while and only came around to fill up our water glasses. the chairman told us stories: living on a reservation to do research, his first marriage, his current marriage, how his daughter brought the members of metallica home once to crash in his basement. an emergency meeting was brought to order over the main course regarding our next action. he said he hadn't been to a strip club since big al's on broadway in 1962, and that might not even count because there were pasties and panties involved. the jr. vp was flippant, having spent some time at dino's as moral support for an exhibitionist ex-roommate. i said i would go in but reserved the right to have a panic attack and run out. all for one, one for all. we went to mary's club. we sat at a table near the middle of the room. it was smaller than the strip clubs i've seen on television or the movies. there was a bar and beyond that a 6-by-8-foot stage. there was a pole and a juke box. when we sat down there was a hipster girl completely naked on stage, leaning toward the juke box and singing "moon river." we ordered drinks and the chairman looked into his glass. i was afraid he was really afraid. he didn't know where to sit, for the first time considering the delicate situation of being in an all-nude strip club with two girls over thirty years his junior, and we switched seats twice before sitting down again to order more drinks. i secretly hoped he would give the panic signal so that we could run away. i didn't look at the first girl. i didn't know where to look or how to sit or where to put my hands or whether to take off my sweater or if it was polite to make comments to the junior vice president regarding the visibility of bruises and cellulite under red lights. the second girl came on, a tired and emaciated version of mischa barton, and after the second song i got used to having someone naked twirling around ten feet away. the chairman put our dollar bills on the stage for us, only hesitating twice and stumbling once. the third girl did tricks. the third girl made her boobs bounce and could hang suspended upside-down on the pole. she mouthed the words to a heart song. we liked this girl. it wasn't so much watching her nakedness as it was watching the acrobatics. she made jokes and i laughed too loud. she winked at me. the junior vice president requested that we move to the bar at the stage. three drinks in i agreed. the girls made eye contact with us, and i didn't mind. i stopped being nervous after the eighth song, although all that smiling and psychic girl encouragement/self-appointed safe harbor was tiring. the chairman got boobs in his face. i was afraid he was going to cry. we stayed long enough to see the rotation several times: same moves, same winks, light conversation while the girls writhed around on the floor. they knew we worked together. they knew we lived in portland. we asked if they did yoga. we complimented the acrobat on her music taste. after a while the chairman gave the signal and we got up. i said goodbye to one of the girls taking a break at the bar. she told me to come back any time. she told the junior vice president she liked me. in the chairman's car we agreed never to speak of the night to anyone at work. i held his dry cleaning in my lap. we smiled in the dark and discussed the best and worst moves of the evening. the chairman drove us to my car and waited until i revved the engine before he drove away. the chairman forgot his credit card at the strip club. the following afternoon he stormed into my office to tell me he had to go back in the harsh light of day, that the girls in the day had nothing on the ladies we made friends with. silicone city, he said. our secret, he said. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |