No. I may not remember every specific detail of the story I told my sisters, but I don’t think a four-dollar motorboat would do it.
Besides, that seems a little weird.
Maybe not much weirder than where we’re standing now. A low stage in the center of the room has three separate dance areas with a tall silver pole at the center of each. At the moment, all three poles are occupied by dancers in varying stages of undress, gyrating with impressive athleticism. I stand there staring for a moment, taking it all in, a little shocked by the spectacle. There are women with small breasts and large breasts and everything in between. There are tattooed women, women with short hair, long hair—no hair, though it’s possible I’m distracted assessing their Brazilian bikini waxes.
“Come on,” Simon whispers in my ear. “Let’s grab a table so we can get out of the way.”
It occurs to me Simon is a lot more uncomfortable than I am. I watch him tug at his tie, and I wonder if we should have gone home to change instead of coming straight from the swanky bar. He leads me toward a wooden table at the edge of the room. The knowledge that I’m the one who came up with this plan makes me feel sophisticated and bold. I’m an empowered, sexually-liberated woman who can take charge of her desires and visit a strip club and ogle other women and—dear God, what is that dancer doing with that man’s eggroll?
“Here’s a spot.” Simon pulls me toward a dark little table in the middle of the room. A wooden bench seat runs the full length of the space, and I take a seat beside him. On one side of us is a burly guy wearing a T-shirt advertising a construction company. To my right is a trio of women giggling into neon-colored drinks. As a topless server in hot pants leans down to take Simon’s order, one of the women sitting next to me catches my eye and smiles. “First time?”
I nod, a little dismayed that my bold and empowered woman vibe isn’t coming through. “Yeah,” I acknowledge. “First time here or any strip club.”
“Really?” She peers around me to Simon, then smiles. She’s wearing a low-cut white top and a tiara that suggests she’s either part of a bachelorette party or a misguided member of the royal family. The redhead next to her wears a crown, so I’m guessing Tiara Girl is a bridesmaid.
“Ah, I get it,” Tiara Girl says. “Lots of guys love seeing their wives and girlfriends sit up front and get groped by the dancers.”
“Wh-what?” I stammer. “No—I don’t—I mean— groped? But no, this was my idea.”
Which I’m beginning to think might be ill-conceived. As though sensing I need a little encouragement, Simon rests a hand on my knee under the table and leans close to my ear. “You okay?”
I nod and meet his gaze. The fizz of nervous energy inside me simmers down, replaced by an unexpected calm. I can do this.
“I’m good,” I tell him.
“Here you go.” He pushes a small stack of two-dollar bills in front of me and offers an encouraging smile. “The waitress just traded me for a couple twenties. She said you’ll need them if you want to sit at the edge of the stage.”
I’m not entirely sure I do want to sit at the edge of the stage. I stare at the spot closest to us, surprised to see more women watching than men. A female customer in a red dress pushes a pile of cash to the edge and smiles up at the dancer, who responds by doing a sexy little shimmy. Another spectator—who looks disturbingly like a woman from my sisters’ book club—takes a sip of her martini and applauds with such enthusiasm she sloshes her drink.
Beside me, Simon shifts on the bench. “I ordered you a lemon drop.”
He’s big and solid beside me, and I feel a rush of gratitude that he’s here. That I’m not tackling number eight alone. “Thank you.”
On my right, Tiara Girl pushes her plate of nachos in front of me and smiles. “Have some,” she says. “They’re really good.”
“They’re—vegan?”
She laughs. “Yeah. Everything here is. The cheese, the sour cream, even the whipped topping on the Spanish coffee. You won’t see any of the dancers wearing leather or fur or anything, either.”
I wonder if I should feel guilty about my own leather boots, then decide it’s the least of my worries right now. “So how does this work, exactly?” I whisper to Tiara Girl. “I need a little help.”
She smiles again, and I wonder if she knows I need more than just tips for strip-club etiquette. That I’m here for a reason, and the reason involves locking lips with a woman I don’t know.
I swallow hard and try to look natural.
“If you sit up front, you put down a minimum of two dollars at the start of the song,” Tiara Girl explains. “The dancer will probably feel you up a little—they know that’s what all the guys want to see—so if you’re not cool with that, just stay right here.”
I can’t decide if I’m cool with that or not, so I pick up a corn chip and take a bite. Beside me, Simon leans in close. “If at any point you’re uncomfortable and want to leave, just say the word.”
I look up to see concern in his soft brown eyes. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“Only because I’m worried you might be.”
“I’m good.” I realize the moment I say this that it’s true, and that much of it is due to the strong, stupidly sexy man sitting next to me. He shoves his glasses up his nose, and I feel an unexpected flare of attraction.
“I can do this,” I say. “I want to do this.”
This is also true. Not just for my sisters, but for me.
