My friend Richard Abowitz writes a blog about Vegas for the Los Angeles Times. Monday night we went to a strip club together with a tourist who was going for the first time. Richard wrote about our outing in his blog, so I figured I’d tell my version of the story over here.
Saturday, by chance, Richard and I met a very interesting and accomplished tourist. He is a medical doctor with a Ph.D, and to say he is well-traveled is a drastic understatement. He has even spent time in my home country, which is a highly unusual place to visit. To protect his anonymity, I can’t say much more about him except that he is a member of a very small elite group. Very elite, actually. Like a ninja but more awesome. It’s very cryptic, I know. My point is, the guy has done many things and seen many places but had never, until Monday night, seen the inside of a strip club.
Before descending into the final frontier that is the underworld of Las Vegas strip clubs, he was briefed on rules and etiquette. I can’t believe how much I know about strip clubs. It’s obscene, really. Richard and I bickered about certain things. He used to write about strip clubs and is far more knowledgeable about the scene than most civilians, but still only had limited exposure to the inner workings of these places. Should you buy her a drink if you aren’t buying dances? I say, “No.” He says, “Yes.” I say, don’t waste my damn time if you aren’t going to spend money. He says it is entertaining (like a train wreck) to talk to strippers while they drink their drink.
When we walked inside, without missing a beat several strippers approached us immediately. They were like a swarm of flies that we had to shoo away until we were ready for the company. Among them was a freakishly enhanced school girl, and a really hot but aggressive brunette. Our guest commented that the girls were all very friendly. Richard and I both laughed. Being friendly pays the bills.
I had not expected the pooled IQ points of all the strippers in the room to equal more than five or six, because that is the way of things. However, we ended up meeting an atypically intelligent woman who was stripping that night. She held her own in a discussion about literature with Richard, a former literature professor. She was also knowledgeable about history and politics. When I was having lunch with an ex-boyfriend today, he said, “I dated the smartest stripper ever,” in reference to me. (Perhaps he learned that flattery works with me?) I argued that I couldn’t possibly claim the honor after meeting that stripper from Monday night. I couldn’t claim the honor anyway but I was then able to give an example of a smarter stripper.
She was hot, too. She was tall with short, blonde hair. She had small breasts and long legs. Since Richard wasn’t interested in a lap dance, and our guest was happily married for longer than I’ve been alive, I decided to take one for the team and get a lap dance from her.
She took off her black skirt and tossed it at one of the men. My view was obstructed by boobs. I could faintly smell patchouli on her. It was nice. It was like Chanel perfume patchouli, and not like hippy incense. She told me I smelled alright too. “Earthy and powdery”, she said. It must have been a combination of my dirty hair, excessive white deodorant and my jacket that had served as a dog bed that I found on the floor that I threw on in haste before heading out.
I was honored to be able to provide a guided tour of a strip club. The tourist really seemed to enjoy the experience. I certainly did.