1PM, my eyes burn, I’m a bit stoned, overtired, I need a few hours’ sleep before tonight’s
bachelor party at 8. I set the alarm for 5:30, hoping to snack, shower, and run a couple of errands before I head to the restaurant. At 6:55, I wake with a start. I must have stood up and
sleepwalked a few steps, to shut off the alarm. My eyes are still dry and itchy. I feel emotionally numb,
dissociated. Every sound, from my own breathing to my flatmate’s voice in the next room, grates on my nerves.
Resist inertia; this feeling will pass. We are late, but we will not blow off the occasion. I promise myself coffee and a hearty helping of meatlicious breakfast disguised as dinner. 9PM, I strut into the restaurant (a Bennigan's). Introductions are made, I wrangle a black-and-tan and a glass of ginger ale. By the time the overworked bar team gives me change, our party is seated. We eat, the bachelor guest of honor is treated to round after round of tequila, Jägermeister, and kamikazes, and the surprise finale is announced: the party is moving to a
strip club down the highway.
This raises an alarm within me. I’ve never been in a strip club; the closest experience was Meow Mix in Manhattan (yes, the lesbian bar featured in Chasing Amy), where the single dancer smiled warmly every time our eyes met. I don’t remember if she was topless, only that she had a serene face, and an unlikely body. I understand the illusion of connection, complete with intimate smile and generous eye contact (as necessary), is all part of the show. I used to get a hypocritical neurotic cookie from the conceit that I am, in matters of the titty bar, still an "innocent". Maybe I should just go home now.
"Hypocritical": Over the years I’ve incited married women to adultery, cheated on more lovers than I’ve been faithful to, witnessed every sort of pornography short of snuff, and flouted nearly every sexual taboo this side of consent. I long ago lost the right to consider myself an "innocent" in any sexual respect. Sometime last week I was ambushed by the unbidden thought: Maybe I should bury this dissonant Puritan prejudice against the relatively tame institution of strip joints, and simply enjoy the view next boys’ night out. I have loved, not wisely, but perhaps too much; the sight of the female primary sexual characteristics reminds me of love, and I cherish memories of each darling and unique vagina as a subset of cherished memories of their respective owners. Why not enjoy spectator sexuality, and accept that the love I burn for will (or won’t) manifest in good time? This is the way my decency erodes: not with a bang, but a whimper. An extension of the same logic would seem to justify occasional visits to prostitutes. I’m not ready to tread that path, and hope I never am.
$15 is the after-7PM "membership fee" for Hott 22, "New Jersey’s Best Kept Secret" and "NJ's Premier Nude Juice Bar". $20 buys a lap dance, and for something on the order of $100 a "member" may sit quietly in a chair on stage while "dancers" climb, bounce, rub, and wriggle all over him. My pulse always pounds in my ears for a few minutes after I enter a dance club or concert hall; the tense energy of a crowd of strangers washed in a demanding beat has never overwhelmed me, that’s not a real fear, but then it’s never a smooth transition, either. The cigarette I smoked on the ride over, and my own reservations about the "scene", add to my temporary distress. Within 10 minutes, my blood pressure has settled down. Part of my mind congratulates itself on maintaining a façade of cool: I am conscious of a resolve not to stare at any one girl for too long, and I ease my inner conflict by squinting periodically at the closed captioning on the two TV’s, or scanning around for someone I know. If I don’t think too deeply about it, I do enjoy the view. I’m deeply suspicious of pleasure that fades under scrutiny.
By half past midnight, I’m watching faces more than any parts more southerly. Dave comments that one girl looks familiar, and I agree. I catch her eye from time to time, and I would swear there are hints of both recognition and sadness. She writhes her way downstage, and is replaced by another girl whose body and face portray opposite sides of the shameless/ashamed coin. Some girls are animated and cheerful, I hope they sincerely enjoy their professions. Some are simply distant and mechanical, and I suspect it’s a lesser-of-evils proposition for them. I imagine these are the veterans. I’m a sucker for innocence, and I hope the girls with wide eyes and sad smiles get the hell out of the biz. I feel no urge to slip dollar bills into garters, despite the hygienic dry smoothness of the flesh they encircle. (If a dollar bill with a hole torn in the center ever passes through your hands, consider whose nipple it was impaled on, and how recently.) Occasionally I catch a whiff of fresh vaginal scent, perhaps imagined; my inner paranoiac wonders if it isn’t artificial. I never thought I wouldn’t relish that smell, but now it just prompts me to edge away from the stage. I love to go down, but you couldn’t pay me enough to sit stageside while one of these kittens wiggled her tail in my face. Words like "cherish", "faith", "love", and "sacred" are alien here; in their place stand words like "contempt", "weakness", "use", and "mundane".
By 1AM, I’ve seen and smelled all I can stand. My skin and my heart feel dirty, I feel like I’ve wounded some moral organ – it will heal quickly enough, but will show a scar forever. Next time that inner alarm sounds, I pray I wake and compel myself to action, rather than sleepwalking.