Scared Straight
(Originally published August 5, 2010)
THE FIRST TIME I went to a strip club was 8 moths ago, well into my 23rd year on this earth. That surprises some people; apparently it’s a father/son bonding ritual in some circles, a rite of passage upon turning 18 or 21. For me, going to a strip club with my dad would've been as ludicrous as him buying me coke and showing me how to snort it. If that too is a rite of passage where you’re from, congratulations.
Back around Christmas I went to New York to do standup, see family, and reconnect with my old friend Ted. We hadn’t seen each other since “CTY,” eight years ago. CTY is a camp for nerds, where you’re admitted based on your SAT score in 7th grade and take a one semester college course as a three-week intensive. We were the coolest people there, of course.
I drove into the city and met Ted around 10 PM. We went to a bar to grab a drink, and picked up right where we left off. It was great. Then we went to a convenience store to buy beer. We drank the beer, then hit another bar. And another. It quickly became apparent we were overeager to show we were still the coolest people there.
Ted suggested we try out a seedy strip club in his neighborhood in Queens called “XXO” (“two kisses and a hug”?). I told him I’d never been to a strip club, so it was official: we were going.
It was then 3 AM and we’d had twelve drinks apiece. I was pretty loopy when we got past the bouncer, so Ted ordered me another drink. We sat at the bar, a semicircle around a pair of stripper poles, which was actually above the stage. We were looking down on the dancers. I felt like Caesar watching the gladiators, or that guy from the Requiem for a Dream Unrated Edition who says, “ass to ass.”
After each dance the girls would walk up and jiggle until you paid them a dollar. I was mesmerized by how depressing it was. I looked across the bar and saw a whole lot of other people, also drinking to forget where they were, equally unaroused.
Why were we there?
I started to laugh uncontrollably. “Hahaha.” Seriously, why were we there? No one was enjoying it. The dancers kept approaching us for money and I said, “Hahaha, here you go, Hahaha,” as I slipped the bills under their bra straps. I laughed between sips of my second beer, number fourteen on the night, felt my head swing in circles as my neck became rubber – “Hahahaha, this is crazy!” – and felt my face slam into the bar counter. When I picked my head up, I saw that I’d broken my glasses in half.
I turned to Ted. “Oh shit! – Hahahaha – I just bought these a week ago! – Hahahahahaha – They were expensive!” The real issue was less their price than the fact that I needed them to drive back to Connecticut in the morning. Without them, I’m legally blind.
Still, we stayed at XXO another hour, so I could practice holding the two halves of my glasses in place with one hand while I tipped the ladies with the other. It was a skill I knew I’d need for the tollbooths on the NY/CT border. I got good at it by the time we left.
I crashed at Ted’s and woke up five hours later. We got Dunkin’ Donuts breakfast sandwiches and strong black coffee. The drive home was uneventful – thank God – and all I had to do then was dodge questions about how my new glasses got broken until I came up with a good story.
(“Good” is relative. I said “they fell off.”)
Earlier this summer, I saw Ted again, a much mellower occasion. I imagine he’ll be a friend for life, not just because he stepped in for my dad that one time.
* * *
I SAW ANOTHER old friend who recently who came out to Los Angeles for the first time, but had also come out once before… of the closet.
Here’s the thing: I love gay people. Case in point, my friend arrived Tuesday night. We’d made plans to pick up his rental car and spare keys the next morning, but instead I got called in to an early morning work meeting. When I returned to the apartment, he’d not only cleaned it but drawn up a new floor plan to rearrange my furniture so I’d have more space.
“I do this for everyone I stay with,” he told me. “I’ll even shop and cook for you. Consider me the straight person’s version of a houseboy.”
“You mean ‘a maid’?” I asked.
While he was there, I took the opportunity to learn more about gay culture, like the distinction between “tops” and “bottoms” (“givers” and “receivers”; “pitchers” and “catchers”; “he who fucks” and “he who’s fucked”). I’d assumed gay people just took turns, but actually most are only comfortable in one role. There are those who do do both – “versatiles” – but they’re rare. (Also, you’d think there’d be about an even split between tops and bottoms, but the LA gay scene is about 89% bottoms - so I was told, by a bottom. The tops are cleaning up.
How can one take advantage of this? Well, according to prison etiquette, you can make someone “your bitch” and still be heterosexual. Therefore, straight guys who struggle with women might consider moving to LA and take after gang members doing hard time. They’ll be plenty of willing recipients. 89%, to be precise.
My friend stayed just under two weeks. I can’t even begin to keep track of the number of “gay things” I did. By “gay things” I’m referring to things like seeing Jai, the culture guy from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy in a one-man cabaret show at a dinner theater, not things like giving Jai a blowjob (though I spoke with someone who supposedly had). The two most extreme “gay things” that happened were both, not coincidentally, at a gay club: first, I went to the bathroom without a buddy – you need one, apparently – and was mildly groped at a urinal by a complete stranger; second, I was told by an increasingly aggressive 44-year-old man to “lift up [my] shirt. Come on. Lift up [my] shirt so [he] can see. Come on. Just do it.”
By contrast, I can count the number of “straight things” I did on one hand. Mostly it involved standing around at Zara while my friend was in the fitting room, overacting my awkwardness about shopping, like I’d never seen scarves before.
By the end of my friend’s stay, I was itching to do something straight. An hour before I drove him to LAX I called up another friend, J_____, and said, “I need to have a very heterosexual evening tonight.”
“Oh? What did you have in mind?”
I laid out a three-pronged attack: alt comedy show, cheeseburgers, strip club. I myself went a step further, wolfing down a corned beef sandwich before we left for the airport. My body thanked me. (Some parts of it. Not my intestines or heart.) Obviously the comedy show and cheeseburgers were the appetizers for the evening; the entrée would be the strip club.
But first, the actual entrée was a cheeseburger at a place called Stout, and it was fantastic. Stout is open ‘til 4AM and waitresses on the late shift are real cute. I figured I didn’t have a shot with any of them because I went a few nights earlier with my gay friend and his gay friend and waitresses kept walking by our table and hearing conversation snippets like “I love feeling the strength of a man when he grabs you and kisses you.” But J_____ and I got a different waitress. She smiled flirtatiously a few times, but I was determined not to get distracted by a girl; this was going to be a heterosexual evening, damn it. (God I’m stupid).
Stout had a bunch of TVs behind the counter showing the movie Iron Man. “What if Iron Man was about a superhero who was just really good at ironing clothes?” J_____ asked. “No other superpowers, but can iron a set of clothes in 15 minutes that would take a regular man 45.”
“You mean ‘a woman?’” I asked.
We left Stout and headed for the strip club. Before I say which, let me say I’ve had a rough time trying to replicate the XXO experience, that laugh riot of sleaze and misery. My three attempts:
1. I met Pete’s college friend Joe after my standup show in NYC, just before XXO. Joe’s also from New England but has since moved out to LA. I drove up to Van Nuys where he was renting a room and offered to treat him to dinner. We went to Jack in the Box. We bullshitted awhile before I asked if there were any particularly dirty strip clubs nearby. He knew of one, but never been (which made it official: we were going). We drove until we found it – a disgusting hole-in-the-wall – but inside it was tame. That was mainly due to the time we went: 7:30 on a weeknight. Most of the guys who’d show up later were still at home beating their wives. The only patron was an old man getting two lap dances at once. The dancers looked so-so and the PA system was busted, so the announcer sounded like he was speaking into the microphone through a bullhorn. Joe and I got a beer each and played two rounds of pool before sneaking out.
3. Clem, the lady friends, and I were out at a bar with one of their co-workers, a hilariously crude fellow who reminded me of Quentin Tarantino. We debated where to go next and the fellow recommended the Body Shop, the longest-running fully nude club on the Sunset Strip (not to be confused with The Body Shop, the second-largest cosmetic store franchise in the world). Tarantino waffled on going because "[he’d] be embarrassed if the strippers all knew [his] name," but he was secretly proud. After one of the lady friends voiced her opinion, that “it would be fun to go to a titty bar,” we went. But it wasn’t what she expected (“I thought they’d be friendly titties!”) We laughed but understood: the women were hard-bodied and aggressive. The nudity was openly hostile. We sat in the back for an hour to sober up, but not long enough, apparently, as Clem tried to exit the room through a floor-to-ceiling mirror. He was not the designated driver.
2. In between the two prior occurrences (the numbering order is deliberate), J_____, Clem, and I went to a place called “Jumbo’s Clown Room.” No nudity, more burlesque, probably not technically a strip club, but a great place nonetheless.
That night I suggested to J_____ that we return to Jumbo’s. Our last experience was so good I’d stopped using my credit card and only paid cash, and began making purchases to maximize the number of $1 bills I’d receive (e.g. if something cost $4.50, I’d throw in a 99 cent candy bar and pay with a $10 bill in order to get four singles; at one point, my wallet was so stuffed with ones it would no longer fold in half.) Problem: neither J_____ nor I knew where Jumbo's was. I guessed Vermont (the street, not the state), but was mistaken.
“Can you check the address on your phone?” J_____ asked.
“No,” I said. “My phone just makes phone calls.”
“Mine too,” he said. Unbelievable!
As luck would have it, there was a police barricade blocking a huge stretch of Vermont that forced us to detour onto a side street leading to a different club: Cheetah's. It didn’t look promising – some junkie was slumped against the wall and a few guys who looked like Fat Joe were loitering by the entrance – but after a second pass around the block and no Jumbo’s in sight, we went in.
Cheetah’s was hopping. We walked to the end of the bar and ordered drinks. I missed the exact moment it happened, but J_____ was just standing there, minding his business, when one of the dancers put her ass into his hand.
“Isn’t my butt great!” she said. “It always leads me to such nice people!”
She had a bubbly personality, a pretty face, and an amazing body. She introduced herself as “Madeleine” and offered us a lap dance. J_____ said, “Maybe later,” and sat by the stage. I sat beside him and wouldn’t let it go:
“That girl was amazing!”
“Yeah, she was pretty cute.”
“Cute? She was gorgeous! The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen!”
“Uh-huh.”
“I would marry that girl. Tonight!” (Of course, I was joking. Somewhat.)
Madeleine had spoiled us. The other dancers were just okay, and totally typical, all with names like “Texas” and “Ruby.” I took out my huge wad of bills – it was stretching the fabric of my pockets – but only threw one or two. J_____ and I got approached by two more girls for lap dances. The first took the hint when we said “no,” the second was more persistent:
“You want a dance?”
“No thanks.”
“Come on.”
“No thank you.”
“You don’t have to be shy.”
“Oh, no, thank you. That’s fine. We appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid we must decline.”(I felt bad. There’s something extra humiliating about turning down a lap dance politely.)
The PA announcer said, “We’re doing 2-for-1 lap dances! That’s right, 2-for-1 dances! $25 for two songs!”
This gave the girl another angle: “Come on. I’ll give you 2-for-1.” (As if the “2-for-1” deal was our little secret. As if you could double the amount of something we didn’t want and suddenly we’d want it.)
“No thanks.” She left in a huff.
We were about to head out when “How Soon Is Now?” by The Smiths came on, and the PA announcer spake the magic words:
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Madeleine to the stage. Let’s hear it for Madeleine!”
The jaded crowd barely noticed her at first, but this was our girl. Madeleine milked the spaced-out sensuality of “How Soon Is Now?” and keep looking at J_____with “fuck me” eyes. (Eye contact is the most powerful tool in a stripper’s arsenal. It’s why strippers with Aspergers tend to struggle.) I split my attention between those eyes and that ass - never wash your hands again, J_____ - and made it rain like Pacman Jones. There weren’t enough $1 bills in the world for this girl.
As the song wound down, she danced her way back to us. “Either of you guys want a dance?”
J_____’s hand darted up in the air immediately, finger pointed down.
At me.
(Under ordinary circumstances, that would be called "a dick move." But not this time.)
Madeleine led me to a room with a huge circular booth upholstered in velvet. She sat me down, put a hand on each knee, and said, “Spread ‘em!” I did.
At this point I should note, though I’ve written almost 3000 words, mostly about strip clubs, I was, and am, a novice. I hadn’t been to one ‘til age 23 because I’ve had steady girlfriends since age 17. Lap dances? Never. But if someone was going to be my first, it might as well be Madeleine.
Rarely in my life have I witnessed true genius. The last time was with my piano teacher, a tiny woman from Taiwan who was named lead organist for her church at age 12. She could pick up any one of hundreds of books of sheet music by her piano, turn to any random page, and play that piece flawlessly. All I could do was grin. It’s a reflex I have that I can’t control; when I'm in awe, I can’t stop smiling.
Madeleine was awe-inspiring. She twisted herself effortlessly into a pretzel on my lap, then ran the tip of her nose up my neck. Perfume filled my nostrils, lips grazed my ear. “You’re shy!” she whispered. “It’s kinda cute.”
I am shy, but the bigger issue was that I was struck dumb. I took a beat, then said, “You’re really good at this.” Not in the porno way - “Unh, yeah, you’re so fucking good, girl” - but in the matter-of-fact, “I’m impressed” way, like you’d say to a friend who just bowled a 300.
At one point Madeleine squeezed her breasts together and brought them toward my face, then backed off. “I don’t want to get nipple marks on your glasses.” She laughed.
“Is that what you normally do?” I said. “Please, don’t give me any special treatment.”
The guy next to me was also getting a lap dance, but he spent the entire time chatting casually with his girl. She’d be jiggling her ass in his face, he’d be going off about the Dodgers, or politics (“What’s your opinion on a woman’s right to choose?”) I couldn’t do it. I don’t know if Madeleine expected witty repartee, but I wasn’t able to provide it. I was just too happy to be there.
It scared the hell out of me.
I really didn’t – and don’t – want to be one of those guys who loves strip clubs too much. The whole reason I started going to them was to have weird, awkward experiences. But this one was good. Really good.
Fuck.
Then I realized Madeleine was just making me feel the way all girls I’ve been with make me feel, but she caught me at a vulnerable time, after I’d just had a gay house-guest for two weeks and was jonesing for something heterosexual. I don’t love strippers; I love women!
By the time the dance ended, my hands were shaking and my skin was flushed. Madeleine asked if I wanted another. I lied and said, “No.” But I gave her a healthy tip and caught up with J_____, still seated by the stage.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
I gave him the rundown on the ride home. Afterward, he said, “She really was good, wasn’t she? How much do you think she made tonight?”
“I’d say about $400.”
“Yeah, $400 sounds about right.”
“I don’t know about everyone else, but that’s what I gave her.”
He laughed and I laughed. Of course, I was joking. Somewhat.