textfiles/magazines/GWD/gwd112.txt

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w   _____          ____   1   1  222        "Experiments in Hedonism"        w
D  //             |    \ 11  11    2                by Jaffo                 D
* ||  ____        | || |  1   1  222                                         *
G ||    || \    / | || |  1   1  2   issue #112 of "GwD:  The American Dream G
w  \\___//  \/\/  |____/ 111 111 222 with a Twist -- of Lime" * rel 09/20/01 w
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- Experiments in Hedonism -

It all started with a discussion on ethics.  Lance and I went out to the Hub
City Brewery to get one of their fantastic pizzas.  They have a real
wood-burning oven, so their crust is the best in town.  Lance and I ended up
sitting at our favorite table, admiring the gorgeous redheaded waitress and
scarfing down pizza.

The conversation started to drag, so I decided to take Lance through the same
series of questions I tried out on Matt and Rusty over the weekend.  We were
discussing ethics, religion, and my recent deconversion -- so I decided to
test some of my theories with real world data.  I won't bore you with the
details.  The important part is, Lance and I started discussing the real
meaning of right and wrong.  This led into a discussion of Epicureanism and
"Rational Hedonism."  I think Lance would make an excellent Epicurean.  The
conversation turned to a discussion of pleasure.  In particular, when should
people feel guilty about doing things they enjoy?

I was planning to stop by Hastings and buy a computer game, but after about
an hour of this discussion, we ended up at a strip club. 

- Escape from the Bunkhouse -

I made the mistake of telling Lance I had never been to a strip club.  Here I
was, 27 years old, single, and unattached.  My friends had been to these
places a couple times, but I never seemed to be around when they went.  So
when Lance took it upon himself to "corrupt" me, I went along cheerfully.
(I'm really not as innocent as I pretend, most of the time, but people seem to
enjoy corrupting me...)  We weren't dressed well enough for Players, the
high-class topless bar in town, so Lance decided to drive outside the city
limits and hit this totally nude place called the Bunkhouse.  It sounded kinda
sleazy to me, but that was the whole point, right?

So we drive out to the middle of BF Nowhere and pull up to this glorified
wooden shack with horses, cowboy boots, and cacti painted on the outside.  At
this point, I began to get nervous.  My mind filled with visions of emaciated
hags with redneck accents and bad teeth.

Daunted, we press on. 

Lance removes a six pack of beer from his trunk.  You can't serve liquor in an
all-nude bar, it's BYOB.  (A smarter man would have seen this as a danger
signal.)  However, since it was Monday, the Bunkhouse was closed.  (Evidence
of divine intervention?  Too close to call.)

I thought our little excursion would be over at that point, but Lance
suggested that we try this new place called Nibbles down the street.  A place,
coincidentally, where my best friend's sister works.  She's just a waitress,
but in a town like Lubbock, being within 30 feet of naked flesh is a sin.  And
actually accepting money from men who are looking at naked flesh might as well
be prostitution.

I don't know which possibility bothered me more.  The thought that I might see
her there, or the thought that she might see me there.

Actually there was one thing that scared me more than either of those
possibilities.  On the way over, I told Lance, "If we see my Dad here, pretend
they need you at the office."

- Nibbles -

The outside of Nibbles wasn't quite as dreadful as the Bunkhouse, although the
parking lot was essentially dirt and gravel.  Inside, I navigated across the
torn carpet, peering into the smoky depths beyond.  The bouncer met as at the
door and put these pathetic little bracelets around our wrists.  They were
designed to glow brightly under the ultraviolet lights of the stage area.  I
know every club in the world does this, but it seemed childish to me.  I felt
like a schoolboy on some bizarre pornographic field trip.

I wasn't thinking very clearly on the way in.  I thought the Bunkhouse was the
only all-nude club in the area.  I thought Nibbles was just topless.  It
didn't take long to figure out I was wrong.

We walked in and sat down right by the stage.  I was expecting some casual
nakedness, maybe a couple of poorly-lit breasts.  But no.  There was some
serious nakedness going on here.  It took a while to get used to.  Lance
pushed a beer over to me and I took a sip of some thick, bitter ale.  I would
have cheerfully traded it for a diet coke, but I was saving my money to tip
the dancers.

We sat there for an hour or so, casually dispensing dollar bills to the
ladies.  You couldn't make out faces very well with all the smoke and shifting
light, but I suspect I was the only one looking at faces.  All the dancers
were very attractive.  I'll confess that my expectations were pretty low
walking in, so I was pleasantly surprised.

During a performance, it's important to develop what I call a "strip club
poker face."  It's a kind of disinterested leer, a cross between total boredom
and smoldering lust.  It's the face most men use at fitness clubs.  I mean,
men know there are beautiful women in tight clothes bending over exercise
equipment in front of them, and the women know they're looking, but neither
side is supposed to acknowledge the other.  There's no way I could simulate
this expression; it just looked too stupid to me.  I mean, I wasn't going to
drool on the floor and hoot, but I wasn't going to pretend I was watching tv
in my living room, either.  The men try to look all cool during the
performance, like women rip off their clothes and gyrate in front of them all
the time.  But obviously this doesn't happen to you all the time, or you
wouldn't have paid the $10 cover.

I decided to use my gentle, nonthreatening grin -- the face I reserve for
single women and old people in the hospital.  (It's also my default expression
during the first week of a new job.)  I was projecting the message, "I'm happy
to be here, but I'm not a pervert."  I don't know if it worked or not.

Between dances, I paid attention to the details of my surroundings.  The stage
floor was like a dilapidated chess board, scuffed by countless numbers of
women dancing in high heels.  That's one thing I couldn't understand.  The
dancers I saw were all wearing ridiculous high-heels.  Black ones, white ones,
red ones -- even clear ones.  I haven't seen that many uncomfortable shoes in
one place since my Uncle's wedding.  Why do women do this to their feet?  Do
men really find these foot-daggers attractive?  I found myself longing for a
girl in tennis shoes or moccasins.  Maybe a nice brown hush puppy.

The lighting was bad and oppressive.  The UV bulbs in the ceiling made
everything look like a government lab from the X-Files.  I kept waiting for a
Gray alien to walk out and ask us if we were enjoying the show.

The whole thing seemed contrived and a little cheap.  The disco lights covered
everything in this sickly half-light.  I mean, I wasn't expecting the place to
be lit up like an operating room, but a discrete spotlight would have been
nice. (A discrete spotlight?  Whatever.)

The worst thing about the stage performances was the DJ.  I don't mean to be
cruel, but this guy was barely one step up from K-Mart store announcer.  He
used the same phrases over and over again, and he slurred the words together.
He over-emphasized certain words, stringing them out too long and too loud, in
a pathetic attempt to generate enthusiasm.

It was like listening to Rick Dees on ephidrene. 

I'm not proud of this, but I've done some time in a DJ booth.  I know all
about the misplaced emphasis and false enthusiasm.  I was a pathetic failure
as a DJ.  My natural speech pattern is a kind of sardonic innocence, poking
fun at the world -- childlike observations cloaked in irony.  There was no
irony here.  No self-conscious hesitation or "regular guy" chatter.  Just this
endless stream of leering hucksterism.  I was a pathetic disk jockey, but
verbally pimping dancers at a strip club is definitely the bottom of the DJ
food chain.  (Right below that guy who does the commercials for Monster Truck
shows.)  However, there would be one significant perk to being the DJ at a
strip club.  You get to operate the smoke machine!  I've always wanted a job
with a smoke machine.

- What Men Really Want -

Don't get me wrong. The dancers were lovely and talented.  Although some were
clearly working harder than others.  Marilyn danced up there like she was
earning money to save a dying relative.  She wasn't necessarily the prettiest
dancer, but she made up for it with enthusiasm.  This girl knew how to work a
crowd.

When I take my next Marketing class, I'm going to write a paper about Total
Quality Stripping. 

She took great care with her props and presentation.  She wore a tight dress
with big polka dots that would glow under the UV light.  But her most
effective tool was the music she picked.  She did a medley of 80's hits,
straight out of my tortured childhood.  People in my age group are suckers for
80's music.  When the DJ launched into "Jesse's Girl," I actually got a little
tear in my eye.  This transparent manipulation paid off nicely for her.  She
stayed longer than any of the others, and she raked in the money.  Lance gave
her a buck for a closer look, and she danced like he was holding a hundred.

Let this be a lesson to women everywhere.  It doesn't matter how you look.  It
doesn't matter how you dress.  It doesn't matter how you walk.  It doesn't
matter how you talk.  It doesn't matter how young or limber you are.  What men
really want is enthusiasm.  If you've got that, he'll keep coming back, no
matter how many pimples or pounds you have.  But without it, your relationship
is doomed.

- Busted! -

I ran into my friend's sister almost immediately, back at the bar.  In all the
years I had known Rusty, I had never said more than 10 words to Casey.  James,
Rusty, Scott, Matt, and I would meet over at Rusty's house periodically to
play D&D and play Nintendo, and Casey was usually there.  She always had a
wild streak, and when I first heard she was working at a strip club, I was
concerned.  Like all good Christian boys, I had heard my share of horror
stories about these places -- all the dancers were drug-addicted white slaves,
all the owners were organized crime figures, etc.

Casey had always been pretty, but the guys assured me she had grown up to be
an absolute knockout, complete with tattoos and piercings and recently-blonded
hair. I  was expecting that, but I wasn't expecting her personality to be so
different.

Casey had always seemed a bit tense at home, a bit reserved in the presence of
her brother. She says her brother didn't want her intruding on the gaming
sessions, so I suspect that was most of it. 

James and Scott had always been close to Casey, but I never really talked to
her much.  So I was unprepared for this bubbly blonde bombshell who knew me by
name.  I had known her family for years, and no one in that bunch could be
called bubbly.  But Casey seemed really happy.  Effortlessly, honestly happy.
I think Rusty could learn some things from his sister.  So could I.

I guess it just goes to prove, nobody can be who they really are in front of
their family. 

I don't know how much of it was genuine, but her emotion seemed real to me.  I
was worried that she might be dancing there.  Not so much because I was
concerned for her, but because if she was dancing, I would have to leave.
I've done some crappy things in the past two years, but lusting after my best
friend's sister was not something I wanted on my conscience.

I'll confess, I shifted into "Big Brother" mode the moment I saw Casey.  I
conducted a polite interrogation to see if she was dancing, and I asked if she
had ever been uncomfortable or scared working there.  She was forthright and
honest, and she made it clear that she would never be comfortable dancing
there. I believed her, and given the intensity of her response, I felt a
little guilty about asking.  Rusty is my friend, but his sister's life is none
of my business.  For the record, I think Casey is a happy, healthy girl
working in a weird job that pays her a lot of money.  Can you blame her?  I
can't.

- Very Important Perverts -

I was ready to leave after about an hour and a half.  I saw lots of beautiful
women, and I had a good time.  But I had to be at work the next day, and the
initial shock wore off quickly.  The girls were lovely, but none of them
really knocked me out.  (Alas, there were no redheads.)

So I was ready to go.  Wanted to come home, write my little journal, and make
it to bed about 1am.  But Lance was in no hurry.  He kept telling me to sit
down and relax.  Truthfully, I was getting bored.

That hideous DJ kept harping about the "VIP Cigar Bar" where the dancers would
come to "hang out" and talk to customers after the show.  I didn't really care
either way, but I figured if Lance was determined to stay, I might as well
wait it out in style.  So we paid 20 bucks for access to this upstairs "loft"
space overlooking the stage.  I immediately felt ripped off.  Just a couple
fat, drunk white guys with one dancer performing for them.

The torn leather couches were more comfortable than the chairs by the stage,
but you would need a telescope to see the dancers from up there.  I don't
drink or smoke, so I just sat there with that simulated grin on my face while
Lance lit up a cigar and knocked back another beer.

It occurred to me that this was becoming a pattern for me -- doing things
sober that most men only do when they're drunk.  If I had been drunk, I would
have been able to overlook all the little details I'm revealing to you now.
I'm sure with a few beers in me, my visit to the strip bar would have been a
magical, tender experience, filled with whispered promises and come-hither
looks.

Instead, I went through the whole thing stone sober, peering carefully to try
and find the cables and plaster that held up the set.  I got a good journal
entry (I almost said "column.") out of the deal, but I suspect that sometimes
it's best to just let it go and ignore the man behind the curtain.

I felt like the geeky bastard in the front row at a Star Trek movie, pointing
out errors in the special effects. 

I've never been able to "just let go" at any other time in my life, why should
this be any different? 

Fortunately, the highlight of my evening was yet to come.  Two of the other
dancers joined us upstairs, and things got a bit more interesting.  Their
names were Ashton and Scarlett.  (Yeah, I know.  Their real names were
probably Ernestine and Beatrice, but I don't think a guy who calls himself
Jaffo should throw stones.)  Ashton was a lovely pale blonde with a quirky
sense of humor and Scarlett was a perky brunette with a mischievous attitude.
(Scarlett also had a couple shots of tequila in her. It seemed to help.)  You
could tell Ashton had been doing this for a while.  She knew how to work the
customers and she seemed to really enjoy talking to us.  At that point, I was
just glad to have somebody to talk to.  The hardest thing about the
conversation was trying to think up questions nobody had asked her before.

I was determined not to repeat any of the stupid cliches, so I asked her,
"What's the weirdest thing you ever saw a customer do?" 

Remember, my primary goal for the evening was not to look like a fool.  I
figured the best way to avoid embarrassment was to shift the conversation to
people who were even more pathetic than me.  That way, even if I said
something stupid, I would still look good by comparison.  It seemed to work.
After a short period of strained conversation, she asked if we wanted a lap
dance.  She even offered us a double.  Apparently, Ashton and Scarlett work
together frequently.

I was running low on cash at that point, so Lance paid for half of it and I
got to enjoy a dance from two women at once.  I was skeptical about the price,
but they had a whole routine worked up, and they seemed comfortable working
together.  Like I said, Ashton knew how to work the customers.

I suspect that's as close as I will ever get to two simultaneously naked
women. 

We stayed up there a while longer and I figured my evening was over.  We were
running low on cash and I had already seen more naked flesh in one day than I
had seen in the previous 27 years.  I was glad Lance had talked me into the
"VIP Lounge," but it was getting late, and I was ready to go home.

But we weren't leaving as long as Lance had cash and beer left. 

I just kicked back and watched the girls dance for other fat morons in the
lounge.  Later, Marilyn came up to talk to us.  I got a chance to compliment
her music and presentation.  She said the other girls made fun of her music.
I assured her that the customers were pleased.

I can see the patterns forming already.  The Boomers have been trained to
automatically buy anything that uses John Lennon or the Rolling Stones as
background music, and in 10 years, I'll be buying all kinds of crappy products
because the commercials used Van Halen and Rick Springfield.  I'll be no
better than my parents -- a slave to my demographic.  Just one refrain of
"Jesse's Girl" and I'm lost in a high school flashback, wondering what
happened to Margo and that cute girl who ran the school paper.

I'm too young to be lamenting my lost youth, so I'll stop whining now. 

- Advice for Younger Men -

Here's a few tidbits of wisdom for those of you who haven't been to a strip
bar yet.  This is what I wish people had told me before I went.

First, be a good customer.  The dancers don't love you.  The dancers don't
hate you.  The dancers don't want to be your girlfriend and they don't want to
go home with you.  They just want to dance, collect some cash, and go home.
Like anybody else, they want to have a good time at work, but having a good
time is secondary to collecting the cash.  Remember, you're only as funny as
the cash in your pocket.

You're not just paying the dancers to get naked for you.  You're also paying
them to pretend you're interesting.  The same reason you tip a pretty
waitress.

Getting a lap dance is a lot like getting a haircut.  Everything will be fine
as long as you don't move.  If you have trouble holding still during the
procedure, pretend the women are holding scissors.

Learn the difference between fantasy and reality.  The strippers aren't all
money-grubbing dope fiends, and they aren't all soiled doves with hearts of
gold.  Either way, it doesn't matter.  Just pay your money, enjoy the show,
and get the hell out.

Leave before the glitter wears off.  Don't stay too long at a strip club.  If
you stay too long, the girls start to get tired and drunk.  If you're sober
when you start, you'll get too drunk and they'll have to carry you away.  And
if you get drunk too early, you'll sober up if you stay too long.  Then you'll
start to notice the tawdry little details I wrote about above.  Stay long
enough to pick the prettiest dancer and pay for a lap dance.  Then get up and
go home.  If some guy with a broom asks you to pick up your feet during a
show, you've stayed too long.

I can't stress this one enough.  Going to a strip club is a vacation, not a
lifestyle.  A little suspension of disbelief is good.  But don't spend too
long in the fantasy.  It's good to be funny and sexy and spoiled for a couple
hours, but don't delude yourself.  You're not going to take any of these girls
home to meet the family.  Seeking emotional satisfaction at a strip club is
like living on Ramen noodles.  They'll tide you over for a while, but they're
no substitute for real food.  I don't know why so many men develop emotional
attachments to strippers.  I suspect this is a carryover from the days when
women only got naked if they loved you.

- Sidney -

I am reminded of a story Rusty told me about a trip to Six Flags.  He was
standing in line with a church group when he saw this girl across the park,
standing in another line.  She was wearing a little black dress, black
sneakers, and she had a little black bow in her hair.

Rusty said there was no conscious thought involved.  As soon as he saw her,
his mind reverted to a primitive, atavistic state and he growled,
"Womaaan...." in a deep caveman voice.

I didn't truly understand that story until last night. 

I'll come clean with you.  Part of this trip was a philosophical exercise. I'm
a Libertarian.  I'm an Atheist.  I don't believe sex is evil, and I don't
think there's anything wrong with single men looking at naked women.  Hell,
I've even decided prostitution can be healthy, in some circumstances.  But
while I have accepted these things intellectually, I hadn't really broken free
of my repressed Christian programming.

I wanted to go to a strip bar so I could challenge some of my inhibitions -- a
rite of passage into manhood, nine years too late. 

And there was another reason.  The driving force in my life is a quest for
dignity.  I fear humiliation more than anything else in this universe.  Maybe
even more than death.  I place a high value on composure and dignity, and I
try to appear calm and "in control" at all times.

I've been working on this for so long, I can handle almost anything without
losing my cool.  I can fall down stairs, smack my head into metal pipes, drop
entire pizzas on the floor, and handle almost any kind of romantic or sexual
faux pas.

Part of this experience was an exercise in deprogramming, and part of it was a
test of my composure.  I wanted to see if I could handle my first time in a
strip club without being goofy, awkward, shy, or pathetic.

I consider this trip a success because I was able to keep my cool.  In fact, I
got over the initial shock so fast, I was a little disappointed.

After that brutal dance from Ashton and Scarlett, I figured I was home free.
If that couldn't shake me, I figured I was unshakable.  Well done!  Good
show!  Pat on the back!  Stiff upper lip!  Time to go home!

I took down my guard at that point, so I wasn't ready when Sidney knocked me
on my ass. 

    * I could have handled the crisp white schoolgirl uniform, tied to expose
      her midriff.
    * I could have handled the green tweed skirt, riding up over a black
      garter.
    * I could have handled the lush auburn hair, cascading over her shoulders.
    * I could have handled the ring in her bellybutton, glittering like the
      star on a Christmas tree.
    * I could have handled the sweet young face and big brown eyes.
    * I could even handle the little tattoo in the small of her back.

But you put all those things together in one package, and I experience a
reaction very similar to Rusty's caveman reversion, so many years ago.  One
look at Sidney and I lost my mind.  I laid 20 bucks on that table so fast, I
think it caught fire on the way down.

I'm a pretty tough customer these days.  Jaded and a little bitter.
Disillusioned about love and sex and women and just about everything else.
The whole universe is like a pathetic black comedy, laid out for my amusement.
Endless shades of black depression and gray boredom.  It's nice to know
there's still something out there that can get my attention and make me take a
second look.

I saw a lot of beautiful women last night, stored up a lot of good memories
and broke down a lot of inhibitions.  But I think Sidney's memory will last a
while longer, long after the rest of Monday night has faded away.

Just so you know. 

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Issue#112 of "GwD:  The American Dream with a Twist -- of Lime" ISSN 1523-1585
copyright (c) MMI Jaffo/GwD Publications                     /---------------\
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