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Naked Women Dancing: A Strip Club Memoir
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WHEN YOU ARE ELEVEN and looking at a girl in the fifth grade, a classmate you're fond of, it is part of the biological imperative of our species to wonder what she looks like without the pretty clothes. This is a decidedly non-intellectual mystery, and quite literally twists and forms our prepubescent bodies and souls according to its verbless dictums. When your third-grade girlfriend steps out of the outhouse on her parents’ farm lifts her skirt and drops her panties, bends over, and yells, “See my ass,” you are stricken with a feeling that you are walking up smooth, hot planks in your bare feet. This is desire before it becomes desire. There is the faintest recollection from Sunday school that naughtiness is present, butt here, twenty feet away, is the very bare butt of the beloved. You don't know whether to do a somersault, shit your pants, or run for cover, so you do nothing but stand there and gaze with eyes that are apertures taking a permanent photo, a rendering that will last until your brain dies.
This desire before it becomes desire is a truly fuzzy puzzle for the young mind, which is mere grape juice that has not yet begun to be wine. With other boys you position yourself in front of the swings to watch the skirts flutter up, revealing bare limbs. With other boys you dog-paddle under the ladder up to the diving board to watch the legs and crotches ascend. You can even develop a fetish of sorts for this act of looking upward. There is a somewhat comic category of softcore porn called “raised-skirt photos,” doubtless hearkening back to your first ligaments of desire: the ungainly boy taking a peek here and there and anywhere possible. You took many peaks but hadn't yet taken aim.
I recall quite clearly when I was nineteen and had run off from the Midwest to Boston to become a great writer, and had become by default and hunger a busboy in an Italian restaurant, how a Greek waiter explained to me that young men generally don't begin to know what they are sexually until the age of sixteen. He took me to a club where we watched a belly dancer who performed with astounding grace. Partial nudity seemed well suited to the dance, which hasn't been the case with the prancing hermaphrodite I’d paid a quarter to see at the Michigan State Fair at age twelve. That particular set of plumbing seemed confused. Age nineteen, however, is a time in life when a ballet dancer on the stage a hundred feet away can give you a hard-on. The ballet, Petrouchka, is supposed to be an aesthetic experience, and I remember struggling to be high-minded, but underneath the aesthete a beast of prey lurks. This pink-limbed young woman whirled and jumped with such beauty that the heart, soul, and pecker lifted in unison. It wouldn't have been the same thing if she were dressed in a pant suit or overalls.
I’VE OCCASIONALLY wondered if the raised platform, the runway or stage, in a strip club isn't inadvertently designed to pander to our first sexual feelings. The nudity, full or partial, hearkens our cojones back to aunts and teachers and, God forbid, our moms. “Zow, I saw some hair,” say playmates to one another. The girls on stage or runway look bigger than life just like women did way back when we weighed not much more than one of our teacher’s enormous pink legs. Big eaters are admired in the Midwest, and this teacher always packed five sandwiches in her flower-decorated lunch bucket. Under the desk, the sight was as mysterious as the first view of the Carlsbad Caverns. She shaved her legs short of her kneecaps, which wasn't quite adequate. Over the decades, I've come to know a few strippers, acting as wise older step-uncle, and they are rarely big on ground level. The stage is, in fact, a raised, enlarged pedestal of lust, a grand altar to summon our desire in the form of the dollars we offer. When I was fourteen, a preacher advised me that “a naked pretty girl can pull at your heartstrings.” He was on the money, though I did not accept the intended warning in the statement. Built into both Calvinism and Catholicism is the implicit threat that anything truly wonderful should also make you feel guilty, especially the skin we were all born in. Congress lately has proclaimed itself staunchly opposed to bare butts. As Jack Nicholson once said about film, “If you suck a tit, you're an X, but if you cut it off with a sword, you're a PG.”
Still, in ever reasonably sized city in America there are porn stores, and at least an attempt at a strip club. The opponents of their existence should understand that these are relatively safe environments for lust and usually have not much more character than the steam valve on a pressure cooker, which is their actual function. Strip clubs show you a parody of what you're in for if you have the time and inclination to seduce someone, or to be seduced. On rare occasions, in specific locations, the dancers have extraordinary talent. Sometimes they seem so strung out on downers that they trip over the dollar bills placed on the stage by burly businessmen and younger men who, having finally resolved their skin problems, have freak hots for this fleeting public display of genitalia. And on the rarest, rarest, rarest occasions you become a witness of true beauty, a marriage of nudity and dance so compelling that your breath shortens, and the heart beats its staccato tachycardia of actual lust, the kind that persistently fills the world with people, the summum bonum of desire that the best of the world’s poets have been singing for five thousand years.
Back to the early days. At twelve, despite your being in a state of continual tumescence, things can go wrong. In the hot tent with the not altogether healthy-looking strippers at the Michigan State Fair and with the extra twenty-five cents still in the offing to view the genitalia of the hermaphrodite, there is the disturbing odor of manure men have tracked in from the exhibition barns for the cattle, pigs, and sheep, not to speak of the cackling breeds. This is not exactly a sexy odor, even to a farm boy. The scent of the manure in the overheated tent mixes with the stomach’s unrest from cotton candy and corn dogs, the French fries that were an effective wick for the grease. You have wiggled your way to the front and are smart enough to know that it all looked better farther back. There are grayish splotches of talc — which smells of the baby powder your mother applies to your younger sister and brother — except around the armpits and inner thighs of the women, where the sweat has absorbed it. One very large and swallow stripper had a bounty of pubic hair, truly a wig dropped in the lard crock. Before the hermaphrodite displays the double whammy, the corn dog has begun to argue with the cotton candy, which shrinks in terror from the French-fry grease. After this, a trip to the swine barn and seeing the ass of a friend’s Duroc sow will be a specific relief.
Once I had drinks in Missouri with a racist, right-wing ex-con, happily married with three children, who spoke with boozy affection for his federal-prison lover, a black transvestite with the marvelous name “Tawna.” I asked him if he ever tried to get in touch with him and he corrected me with “her.” He insisted she was “all woman,” though of course she had a dick. When he returned to my question of getting in touch with Tawna in Kansas City, he said, “It wouldn’t be right,” meaning ethical. This avowed Christian who once had been caught with several hundred thousand Percodans had passed easily from a sexual attitude of any port in a storm to the sacrament of marriage. Life is like that, we agreed. You may control your sex life with a strong mental dog collar and leash, but your brain will continue to spin its own stories for you to enact.
It is our societal and religious rage for order that tries to confine sexuality to marriage. The fact that this leaves out single people and gays is irksome indeed. If we don't behave ourselves, maybe the economy will cease working. If only sex were what we pretend it to be, there wouldn't be all these problems. The statistics on marital infidelity become boggling when you go to a movie, concert, or ballgame and the numbers acquire faces. Doubtless the fear of AIDS has done more for marital fidelity than religion or societal opprobrium. These question is, what is permissible? Self-righteousness has become both a disease and an industry. Sexual content on TV is avidly discussed in Congress as if there were no sexual content in life, but then, historically, political corruption has always been singularly humorless. The most degraded feebs in recent history have all stood foursquare for family values, whatever those are.
Unless you are afflicted with satyriasis, the male equivalent of nymphomaniac, mood is everything in sexual matters, from which a high degree of pleasure is expected even though the pleasure might be limited to the visual. Mood is utterly dictatorial, and often it's as hard to reestablish a good mood as it is to reconstruct a spider web. Improbably, in fact. Sometimes the situation shows how dumb some of us are. In Ann Landers today, a wife has turned off during foreplay when her husband mentioned how sexually attractive he found her younger sister. When he got home from work, this guy must have shut his head in the car door. This particular mood problem will last for a while, in contrast to, say, trying to make love to a girl in the backseat of a car on a college campus the night before the big game. In the distance, a group around a bonfire is singing the college fight song. You are an aesthete, and your pecker wilts when confronted with the naked banality of this song. You drive a dozen miles into the countryside, where through the open window you hear only crickets and the rasping whisper of cornstalks, the moon wishing its own slow arc of light through the steamy window.
AT MY favorite strip club in America, the Night Before Lounge, in Lincoln, Nebraska — which I often visit with prominent academics from the local university, who use me for this purpose, as strip clubs are not an acceptable activity in modern universities — I was feeling distraught one evening and not able to emotionally relate to my then favorite stripper, Bonny, though her pubis in the clutches a violet G-string was a scant two feet from my nose. My mood was sodden but my mind was clear, and I could travel back in memory an entire two hours to when I had ordered an appetizer of deep-fried chicken gizzards to precede a two-pound porterhouse. I can't say these gizzards were delicious, rather they were an acquired taste to give you something to fiddle with delicately before the steak arrives, but th
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