Strippers I Have Known: The Ladies of Lexx Vegas

In the second installment of his ongoing “Strippers I Have Known” series, Ryan Björklund talks shop with strippers (and close friends) Sarah “Maverick” Christian and Sarah “Dixie” Watson. 

Most of the streets here are named after prolific racehorses. After turning on a few of them, I arrive at the famed Lexxx Vegas–the finest strip club in Lexington, KY. The amount of cars parked here this Tuesday night indicates that many inside recently had a bad case of The Mondays.

On my way through the parking lot, I step carefully to avoid scattered decaying condoms. They look like dying worms laid out after a heavy rain. To myself, I LOL.

I am greeted by a stocky envoy, a permafrowned TapouT bro with a shaved head. A single letter is tattooed on each of his knuckles, spelling out a warning to lesser beings. After handing him my ID, he carefully compares my picture to my face.  “Fourteen dollar cover tonight, Tex.” His voice is a few notes higher than I had anticipated. I hand him a twenty-dollar bill. He hands me back a trio of two-dollar bills. Clever.

 On me, he places a UV sensitive wristband to signify his approval of my being there. Upon entering, my eyes begin to adjust to the neon purple ambiance.

“Aw hells yeah! I’d beat the cheeks off’a that thang!” a man jubilates over loud misogynistic rap lyrics. I am reminded of what brings me here, and to places like it.

 That familiar aura of futility. The resulting calm I feel amidst the absence of innocence. Here, there are no victim advocates. No righteous helping hands. No political correctness. That bullshit never made it through the parking lot. The morally upright don’t tread over used condoms to pay to have unfamiliar pussy dragged across their stain-resistant Dockers. No siree, Tonto!

Some of them are the same people who are wealthy enough to donate a hundred dollars or so to ensure their local Catholic school can fund another season of lacrosse.  The same people who feel empowered while publicly showcasing their nobility, chucking petty cash into a drunken bum’s pisspot. “Passersby! Cease in your wickedness and heed my sensitivity!” The most hypersensitive, hand-holding empathizers, however, are nowhere to be found.  It is both out of their tax bracket and morally unfathomable for them to end up in a sleazy place like this, donating money to these working girls After all, a group hug here will set you back about forty dollars.

Wutevz. On my way to the bar I pass through a cloud of smoke. Part cigarette, part fog machine. The hulking female bartender has a high ponytail, and is enshrouded in purple mist. Someone must’ve rubbed a lamp. I make sure to call her “darling” when I make my first wish: A glass of rum, no ice. Don’t worry–I’m a philanthropist with the compliments. I wish I had more than two kidneys to donate.

“Four dollars!” she smiles and yells through her cupped hand. I fork over a pair of two-dollar bills. Clever.

Minus the naked women, the place is reminiscent of the bar scene in Star Wars. The customers vary in their ridiculousness, yet all are comfortable in their element. There is a bearded midget in a trucker hat. Old guys lurking in the shadows. A couple of sweaty fat Italian-looking guys wearing tracksuits. A few black guys wearing mirrored sunglasses. A pack of bros from the University of Kentucky. A mixed bag, something-for-everybody business model. Strippers clearly a mixed bag as well. A few twos, a few tens, and plenty of everything in between. One man’s trash is another man’s Rooster Booster.

“HOWZABOUT THAT!? You pack of horny fucksticks love it! Give it up for The Cheezeburger, Hold The Onions!” the DJ booms over the loudspeaker as a majestic beast of a woman lumbers off the stage. Onlookers clap, and remain undaunted by the fact that her stage name is Cheezeburger, Hold The Onions. Weighing in at 261 pounds, and towering over the audience at 6’6”. Time and gravity have been cruel to her breasts. The long, dark stretchmarks adorning them makes it seem as though they’d been aggressively fondled by Freddy Krueger himself. Her movement is a sluggish, bow-legged jaunt. Perhaps this is done to keep her fishnets from ripping beyond what is considered practical. Having made eye contact with Cheezeburger, she targets me and shifts into gear.

“Hey motherfucker, I just drank a whole bottle of champagne. You wanna dance?” Her voice is every bit as deep as I had anticipated. I begin to feel like the narrator in The Kinks’ “Lola”.  In the background, the pounding dubstep mix sounds like a chorusing Deceptacon orgy.


Before I’m able to answer, a buxom blonde grabs me by the UV-sensitive wristband and pulls me away.

Am I saved?

“I got this–so get bouncing, Bertha,” she says to Cheezeburger. “What’re you doing here, dude? Haven’t seen you in forever!” I look beyond the glitter and F-cups and see that she is Sarah Kristian, an old friend of mine from high school.

 Her body is still firm and athletic, but her breasts are much larger than I remember them. I am speechless. She asks if I would like a dance.

“Here the name’s Maverick, by the way.” She says as she sits me down in the room where private dances are conducted. A narrow corridor lined with huge plush thrones, wide enough to accommodate the individual who is accustomed to buying two airline tickets at a time. She leans over me and tells me she’s been in Lexington for a while, living with her boyfriend, a retired Marine.

(As this iPhone screenshot indicates, all of her friends have had a thing for Marines)


Her boyfriend is also the father of her 14 month old son. She also has another son, who is 6. I am astonished, because her body bears absolutely zero signs of childbirth. Another anomaly apparent to me is that she doesn’t even begin to make a big deal of her situation. She doesn’t lapse into self-pity, or feel the need to tell me how great of a mother she is. She’s all business. Here to make money, not shop a screenplay for a Lifetime TV movie.

Straddling me, she voices her dismay:
“Fuck, I hate the regulars that come in here. They just sit around wanting to talk about bullshit! I’m like: Seriously – if you’re not here to spend money, you are a waste of fucking space.”

Her forearms dig into my collarbones as she rotates her hips into my lap. It is clear she’s had some experience.

”I started in Dayton years ago. It’s not a pretty job, but the money is excellent. Addicting, even.” Her body does not contradict the fact that she can easily make a thousand dollars a night.

After the motorboat engine died, I ask how the breasts sprouted up. “I was actually in the Navy for a little while. Used my signing bonus to get these. Wanted them since I was thirteen.” She turns around, still straddling me. “Soon as the money went through, called the surgeons next day, and told them to run that shit.” 
(pay for it immediately, schedule an appointment)

“Yeah that makes sense…” I mumble, as she bends over before me, and spreads her cheeks. From her asshole protrudes a shiny diamond, roughly the size of a quarter. It is a buttplug.

I ask its intended purpose. “It gets people’s attention. Plus, I feel weird with people just staring into my asshole.” She laughs as she spanks herself. I take note of her peculiar sense of privacy. “You wouldn’t believe the retards here in Kentucky. A lot of people have asked me if my asshole was pierced.”

I am not surprised.

“I have a few good friends here. But 95% of the bitches you see out there, were snorting lines in the dressing room to pre-game their nightly daddy issues.” Compared to other nights, this one is bland and uneventful. She goes on to tell me about a champagne room experience she had where an admitted drug dealer pulled out his penis wrapped in rubber bands.

“Har-har-har. I just like to dock it off,” she says mockingly in her deepest man voice.  “I definitely don’t do that shit. There are some hoes here that’ll fuck you and suck you for quicker money in the parking lot. That is so not me.”

Sara puts things in perspective. I’m glad to have seen her.

As our time in the room concludes, we say our goodbyes. “Keep in touch”, all that jazz. On my way out, I fist-bump the frowning TapouT bro, and grin with a newfound appreciation for the most recent batch of greasy condoms that now surround my car.

As I drive away, I consider the possibility of attending our ten-year high school reunion.

Sarah “Maverick” Kristian and Sarah “Dixie” Watson are good friends of the author. They live and work in Lexington, Kentucky. Both are dedicated mothers who put their children above all else. They will be regular contributors to this series and can be followed on Twitter:  @Kristian_Dixie


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Flight or Fight

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About Ryan Bjorklund

While a high school junior, Ryan Björklund went to Australia on a student exchange program. Although an invaluable experience for him, it also depleted all the money he had accumulated for college tuition. Upon receiving zero scholarships despite scoring above-average on the ACT, he joined the US Army and served from 2006-2012, working as an ammo supply specialist, engineer, and cavalry scout. He was honorably discharged as a 19D20 (SGT) cavalry scout from Ft. Bliss, TX and now lives in Pittsburgh.


  1. This piece is excellent. I can’t wait for some myopic reader to bust out the Judith Butler they skimmed the night before class.

  2. Michael says:

    Another winner, bud. I’m betting there’ll be a whole bunch of outrage over this one, too. Keep it up.

  3. I would like to hear more of their stories from the trenches (or “the champagne room”)…maybe if they could fill in the areas of the timeline that goes from fellow high school student to mother of 6 year old and 14 month old to “Maverick”….What were their options?

  4. Strip clubs get boring really fast. What I really want is to have sex with a gal that wants have my baby. That’s the best sex of all.

  5. Ha. I went to high school with her too!

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