In typical Virgo mode, I researched proper adult entertainment club etiquette. The most amusing comments/advice were convincing men that a dancer’s attention was on getting paid, not finding a man. On the other hand, all I wanted to know was a ballpark figure for the least amount of cash I needed on hand. I settled on 40 in $1s, which I raced to the bank after work to obtain. I even bought an inexpensive black fanny pack, expressly to keep all my singles separate from everything else.
Although I no longer pine for vacations as I did when I was a classroom teacher, making an overnight girls’ trip made me giddy. I hadn’t initially realized that this event took place over Memorial Day weekend. The built-in extra day to my weekend was just a cherry on top.
As my friend drove us nearly three hours to the hotel, we discussed dinner plans. She didn’t care for sushi and I didn’t want any national chain restaurants. During that discussion, we passed by a restaurant that reminded me of another dining prohibition: no restaurants with “family” in its name.
Once at the hotel, I showered and changed into an overdressed outfit. Why not? I’d been extra about everything else, concerning this trip.
Besides, we had time to kill since our friend would perform around 11 PM. Plans came together on our way for a pre-dinner drink when we unexpectedly rendezvoused in the hotel bar with our friend.
This was one of the reasons we’d wanted to stay at the same hotel as her. We firmed up plans. She said she’d leave our names at the door, saving us $25 apiece.
I relaxed my rule about going to a national chain since we were merely getting drinks. After all, who can resist a spicy margarita? Turns out, the drink wasn’t nearly spicy enough. Instead of the bartender informing our server that the spicy, sweet and sour mix had run out, they just made the margarita by sprinkling the spice mix into the drink. My friend was NOT fooled.
We finished our drinks, then had dinner at an unofficial family restaurant. That Indian/Nepali restaurant didn’t have “family” as part of its name, but the presence of families whose ethnic background could have been Indian or Nepali was a good sign.
We returned to the hotel to stow our leftovers and freshen up. Although we didn’t want to be too early for the event, we still managed to beat our friend there. Yet, it’s never a dull moment when alcohol and men are in abundance.
As we sat outside the venue, we witnessed a guy who was about to enter the club give the bouncer, a younger man with a larger-than-life, unruly, curly afro, some advice. “If you want other dudes to respect you, cut your hair or cornrow it.”
Upon hearing that, a woman, who spoke like a manager, berated the customer for his advice. The guy explained to her that his advice wasn’t unsolicited, but rather a continuation of a previous conversation where the bouncer had asked him about how to garner more respect.
As I listened to the conversation while pretending to look at things on my phone, I marveled at, no matter the job setting, younger employees need guidance from older employees about how to be professional. AND how out-of-touch management will catch a whiff of something and blow it all out of proportion.
Once our friend showed up, along with her assisting friend, we entered the venue. Our friend and her assistant reported to the dressing room while we approached the cashier. I proudly announced that we were guests of the featured dancer and gave our names.
I’m always in a good mood to be on such a list and wriggled my hips while slowly twirling when the security guy checked me with a metal detector. Still being extra, why stop then?
I didn’t enter like a deer in the headlights, but I gave off newbie vibes. Definitely “not from around here” energy. Even the guy at a nearby table, who only told me that he was from New York, but didn’t tell me his name (and granted, I didn’t ask), knew we were out-of-towners. At one point, our server asked if we were from California. I just smiled, thinking that even she was attempting to flatter us out of our money.
At the top of every hour, “Are You Ready for This” by Jock Jams played, signaling the show special. All the dancers formed a line to parade across the stage in a single file with a shot in their hand while the recording advertised the show special of a private dance and shot for $40.
For the first show special, one dancer approached our table. Perhaps word circulated among the dancers that we weren’t interested and no one else besides our server ever approached our table throughout the night.
By contrast, “New York” paid for innumerable (because I stopped keeping a mental count) lapdances. Initially, I minded my own business, giving “New York” and other lapdance customers privacy, but then, I thought, “What the hell, we’re all still in public.” I reasoned that I was helping them get their money’s worth by watching.
Perhaps my curiosity invited “New York” to ask where we were from and then to ridiculously ask if my friend and I were sisters. Certainly not in the genetic sense, although we shared common interests: former teachers, ethnic food, live cultural events and pole dancing class.
As a matter of fact, all of us who eventually sat at the table were all part of my chair dancing class, including the chair dance instructor, who arrived nearly two hours after we had.
Speaking of that instructor, she was absolutely hilarious as she squirmed while watching some of the pole dancers. I witnessed her inner turmoil as some dancers performed on the pole with flexed feet, knowing that she wanted to scream, “Point your fucking toes!”
Despite Hollywood depictions, the most popular dancers for whom men made it rain money, weren’t the skinny minis, but the voluptuous, had “meat on their bones” women.
Close to midnight, our friend graced the stage in a tricked out Mandalorian costume. She’d persuaded our chair instructor to don a Grogu costume, which I didn’t get a shot of because the DJ had announced late that we were permitted to take pictures.
Once she performed a choreography, she gradually removed the costume and continued performing pole, floor and chair choreography as her assistant discreetly gathered the discarded costuming and props from the stage.
I’ve done some bold things in my life, but couldn’t muster the courage to approach the stage and make it rain money. Neither could my friend. Our solution: shove our money to our chair instructor once she returned to the table.
Since our instructor had tended bar at a similar club, she knew the most practical thing to do was slide the money on the side of the stage so the performer could see it, but not provide an obstacle/hazard on the performance space. I’m sure in the history of club dancing, someone must have slipped on money before.
Besides, as other dancers twerked doggie style for tips and men rained money on their backs, the whole action seemed like a proxy for ejaculation.
I thought that the shoulder stand in the chair would have been the most impressive move my friend executed (since I’d been practicing that move for a month in chair dance class). I was mistaken. She whipped off her top and did a move I didn’t even know women could do.
Call me sexist, but had only seen men make their pecs bounce. Now, imagine a pair of attractively enhanced breasts bouncing up and down not due to “shaking her money makers,” but rather under sheer muscle control. That was the most mind-blowing thing. (Yes, I tried it once I got home. No, I STILL haven’t mastered the way of the Jedi or Mandalorian to make my breasts jump, but long term goals help motivate one out of bed in the mornings.)
Her second performance occurred nearly an hour later. Her assistant spread a tarp on the stage and laid four lit candles in the foreground. Again, she performed a choreography, this time in a flowy costume, complete with fans. Once she’d stripped down to a thong, she blew out a candle and poured the hot wax onto herself. I winced each time she did that, but the move was a clever ruse since men could imagine that was ejaculate. The stage rained money each time she did it.
The Virgo in me appreciated how the tarp made wax/costume/ props/money clean up very efficient.
We returned to the hotel after 3 AM. My friend set her alarm for 10:30 AM. I’d be up once the sun peeked through the curtains.
In the morning, we researched a family-owned breakfast place that was less than five minutes away. As we waited in a short line to be sat, I smiled at the in-house promotion of a dental clinic. In a certain light, one would think that the food was so bad that you needed a trip to the dentist rather than a family member advertising for a relative.
Although I normally have scrambled eggs Monday through Friday, I couldn’t completely escape them, but I tried my best when I ordered the Hobo Breakfast.
Yet, the best breakfast topper was finding a $20 when we were standing in line to pay for our meal. I did the civil thing and asked nearby people if they’d dropped it. Everyone, including the cashier, denied dropping the bill; so, I happily put it in my purse guilt free.
As if spending time with friends out of town and eating at good local restaurants weren’t good enough, when I returned home, I still had another day off. One thing experience has taught me is the importance of having a full day to recover from vacation fun. (And we never once turned on the hotel TV!)