It was the only real bachelor party I ever went to. There had been wives, girlfriends, and even one mom for a short time at mine. We hung around my friend’s house, drinking, playing ping-pong, and telling stories. That was it. This one, I was assured, would be crazy. I knew the groom-to-be, and I’d met his brother once. The rest of the crew were strangers to me, however, mostly computer engineers and tech guys.
We started at a restaurant, where the partiers made a bunch of crude jokes at the waitress’ expense. She handled it well, but I was a waiter, myself, and could tell she was clearly irritated. I was going to bag on the whole thing at that point, but the bachelor hadn’t actually joined in on the jokes, so I stayed on. Then came the bar-hopping. The bachelor’s brother kept making jokes about men’s junk. Everything was a joke about that. Even the word dictionary was hilarious.
Things felt done, after the third bar, but I was told there was one more stop. We pulled up in front of a strip club downtown. The party was strangely solemn, as we climbed out of our cars. It was like they were preparing for an important meeting with a respected authority. The doorman was massive and wore an ill-fitting tuxedo. He checked our ID’s and told us the rule: No touching the girls. Did we understand about the no touching? We understood.
Inside, it was dimly lit and music thumped loudly. I’d never been to a strip club before and was surprised how gloomy it felt. Men, mostly one to a table, sat with their hands on their drinks, staring at the empty stage. Young women in bikinis circulated through the tables, pausing here and there to speak into men’s ears. I noticed one customer nod and hand her some money; she sat on him and began her lap dance. It, too, was the first I’d ever seen. All I could think was, “That’s not a dance.”
As we found our tables, the DJ broke in. “All right, guys. Put your hands together for Cinnamon!” No one clapped. Cinnamon took the stage and began twirling around the pole. The men stared. Cinnamon spun and writhed. Then, in one deft motion, she whipped off her bikini bottom and suspended herself athletically on the poll with her legs spread wide in a V-shaped fashion.
No one howled. No one hooted. It was all sort of ritualistic. Watching her reminded me of comedians who have grown tired of telling the same joke. She wasn’t there. I thought of those awful times a partner of mine would leave herself in the middle of sex. I’d want to stop, but she’d tell me it was fine because she was embarrassed to admit what was happening. Except, it’s no good without her. Her body was not the point…at all.
A waitress arrived and asked me what I wanted to drink. I told her I’d been drinking all night and was fine.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You have to have a drink all the time. If it’s empty you have to order another one or leave. Also, we don’t serve alcohol.” She seemed a little embarrassed about the rules, which I appreciated. Honesty’s nice no matter where you get it. I ordered a coke for $8.50.
Cinnamon had just finished when a pretty young woman in a bikini appeared at my side. She knelt down beside me and put her hand on my knee. “You want a lap dance?”
Looking at her, I thought of how much I liked women. I liked hanging around with them, dating them, and I liked being married to one. The actual difference between men and women, I find, are subtle (more red vs green grapes rather than apples and oranges). Still, I liked the difference. I didn’t feel that “quiet competition” with women that I often felt with other men. I wanted to learn to be as kind to men as I felt I could be to women.
I leaned over so the dancer could hear me. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”
She smiled and nodded. “Well, you just got here.”
She was very nice about it. I felt like she was taking care of me. It was such a strangely normal, human exchange. I was craving normal. Meanwhile, across the room, the bachelor’s brother was getting a lap dance. The dancer ground in his crotch and he stared at the back of her head blankly, his hands firmly on the chair’s armrests. Another woman took the stage and got naked. By the time she was done the brother was getting another lap dance.
He was getting his third lap dance when the DJ made an announcement. “I understand we have some bachelors in the house! Come on stage, boys. It’s your special night!” My friend and another guy climbed onstage and sat side-by-side on chairs prepared for them. As the music restarted, all the dancers made their way forward and began a harem-like performance, gyrating and stroking and rubbing in a revolving circle of limbs and butts and breasts. My friend and the other bachelor gave each other high-fives.
I knew my friend well enough that I didn’t think he liked the dance as much as his smile suggested. It was as if he was determined to enjoy himself–that just as you are supposed to go to a strip club for a bachelor party, so too are you supposed to like having strange women in bikinis dance all over you. Never mind the reality.
I turned to one of the other guys in our party. “I’m out of here.”
He nodded. “Me too.”
We waved to our friend as we left, but the dance was still happening and I didn’t know if he saw us. Outside, my new friend was shaking his head. “That was awful.”
“I know,” I said. “I never realized exactly how depressing those places were.”
It felt good to debrief with him, as we made our way to our cars, the way it’s good when a drug is wearing off and you feel the toxins leaving your veins. I drove home and climbed into bed, where my wife was already asleep. I wished she was awake so I could tell her all about it. Tomorrow was Sunday, though, and we’d have all of it together, so I could tell her then. Strange, I thought, as I drifted to sleep, that the club didn’t leave me wanting sex at all, just the normal, intimacy of life–what’s always there when you strip away the desire for anything but love.
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