Like a salmon struggling upstream instinctively, I have no rational reason for pulling into the parking lot at The Landing Strip; it's just something I have to do. I turn over my keys to the mandatory $6.00 valet. He's going to need a tip on my way out too. It's a ten-dollar cover charge and the coat check requires a tip. I'm twenty bucks in and haven't seen a naked breast yet.
The burly bouncer asks my seating preference and I take my usual, right next to the stage. I sat this close even when I didn't need reading glasses. Why the hell would I sit in the nosebleeds when there are empties at the fifty-yard line? A thin young cutie in a microscopic black leather skirt brings my gin and tonic. I squeeze the lime in and it's perfect. She takes possession of my credit card and my driver's license since I'm not paying cash. Geesh.
The thin black dancer on stage hasn't popped her top yet, seems disinterested and won't make eye contact. She has obviously never read the pole dancer's handbook or is deliberately ignoring the requirements of smiling, enthusiasm and excessive perfume. She doesn't change by the third song and gets no tip from me and that's unusual. I'm pretty generous in these clubs.
In my animalistic drive to get here, I've neglected to get enough cash at the gas station ATM that would have cost a couple of bucks. The club will give you cash, but charges twenty percent. I can take the mandatory valet, the cover and the coat check, but this is too much. The dancer seated with me wisely and selfishly suggests I try the food mart across the street. I do, but it's closed. I summon the manager to my table and tell him the deal. I'm either going to finish my second gin and tonic, get one lap dance and hit the road, or he is going to give me two hundred cash on my credit card for ten bucks. He is polite and understanding and counters at ten percent instead of twenty. I can live with that. I have to pay for my mistakes.
Cash in hand, I'm in a better position to negotiate lap dance rates which on this day and in this club start at twenty-five a song according to my fish-netted tablemate who, sensing a potential transaction, has just redoubled her perfume. I like it. My wife is allergic and never wears the stuff.
We wander downstairs to the area with the curtained couches and are met by another bouncer. If I've gotta tip this son-of-a-bitch, I'm outta here. No, he escorts us to our booth and pulls the curtain closed behind us. For those unfamiliar with lap dance etiquette, at least old-school etiquette like mine, you keep your hands at your sides and your feet on the floor during a lap dance. You can slouch all you want. Ms. Fishnet is affectionate like a purring cat rubbing against you and keeps things light considering the absurdity of the situation, a true professional. Without being too graphic, my face is able to ascertain that her spectacular rack advertised on stage is undoubtedly the work of a gifted plastic surgeon. We finish after two songs and I've negotiated nothing in my favor. She tips the bouncer on the way up. That's more like it.
We part ways upstairs, kind of like catch-and-release fishing. Come to think of it, splitting a six-man deep sea fishing charter costs just about the same as a night at a tittie bar, but I digress. I catch a blonde at the bar and we discuss her biological engineering degree, her mother's ignoring her career choices, her recent DUI conviction, and our mutual passions of writing and criticism. She smokes cigarettes, about three packs a week, and admits that nothing looks less attractive especially on a woman. I agree. Since Michigan passed the smoking ban the air is much cleaner in this bar, but she's forced to dip into a tin for a little nicotine candy fix. After she finishes on stage, we head downstairs where I find the surgeon's gifts will remain justifiably unrequited for several more years at least.
It's time to go. I've been drinking ice water for the last hour or so, so I doubt I'll be sharing a DUI parole officer with Blondie anytime soon. She is clearly an alcoholic and at her age and with her looks, that is particularly sad. On my way out, Ms. Fishnet is coming off the stage. I stop for one last hug and thank her for the free read more