XXX

Two nights ago I gathered up a handful of the latest Avon brochures, fifty of the new Avon Men's Catalogues, a bag of men's Ab Cream samples, and my demo bottle of the brand new Today fragrance and drove down to San Diego, to the fanciest strip club in the county. At least I thought it must be the fanciest because it had the biggest ads in the alternative paper with headlines that read "Sexiest Girls!" and "Voted Best Gentlemen's Club!" I ripped the ad out of the paper before I left home and stood stark naked for a long time in front of my paltry closet, wondering what one wears to a strip club. Jeans? A dress? Nah, something artsy. I settled on my utilikilt and baby blue knee socks and a long sleeve black form-fitting t-shirt and the gray leather cowboy boots my parents gave me on my last birthday. I stuck two pink barrettes in my hair, the kind that have rhinestone sparkles, and added a silver marcasite Avon watch, earrings, ring, and necklace set. I thought I looked hot for a mom, but my teenaged son laughed and rolled his eyes.

"Geeze, mom, Halloween was two weeks ago."

Maybe he's right, I thought as I drove down the freeway, past the auto mall road with endless dealerships, past the exit to Sea World. I removed the barrettes and necklace and set them on the passenger seat next to the newspaper ad. Never a cover charge for ladies! Prime rib dinners! I imagined the club, imagined thick brass dancing poles and a black marble stage and small round tables full of men in elegant business suits smoking cigars, drinking, watching tall lithe women with tassels and long straight hair wiggle and dip to rhythm and blues. I would ask one of the dancing girls if I could follow her back stage and give her a spritz of Today. I would walk through the smoky haze of the club and leave a Men's Catalogue on each table with a handful of Ab Cream samples. I would flirt and giggle and use my bedroom voice and whip my red order pad out of my front kilt pocket when a man looked willing. I would leave a stack of books with the club host along with a thank you bottle of Wild Country cologne. I turned east on the freeway that runs past Old Town and continued picturing my perfect strip club evening, and by the time I pulled my old minivan into the parking lot, I was counting hundreds of dollars in imaginery Men's Catalogue commissions.

I stuffed the samples in my back kilt pocket and grabbed my purse. I brought the Avon denim shoulder bag, the one with the applique flowers and patches, the one that could hold seventy-five brochures without complaining, and slung it across my left shoulder. I stuck the bottle of Today in my side pocket, adding three inches to my hips. I locked the van door and headed toward the door only to see a line of women at least twenty-five bodies long waiting for admission.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" I tapped the woman at the end of the line on her right shoulder. "What's going on tonight? Why are so many women in line? Where's all the men?"

She turned around to look at me, but her eyes were drawn to my bag and then my hips. She wore a smart red t-shirt and tight low rise jeans, high-heeled pointy boots on her feet. She carried a gift-wrapped box tied with a golden ribbon in one hand, a chic velvet clutch in the other.

"It's ladies night. You know? The male strippers?" She turned back around to chat with four other women carrying presents, and I followed them into the club.

I stared at all the women waiting in line. Most seemed part of small connected party groups, and I heard one woman in a tight denim jumpsuit unzipped to there squeal "Happy Birthday" to a friend. I listened to the group in front of me talk about an upcoming wedding, bridesmaids dresses, flowers, and men. Men, men, men. The women lining up behind me were no different. Men, men, men. Men doing wrong. Cute men. Bad men. Hairy men. Tight ass men.

Damn, I thought, is this what normal socially active women think? I remembered the last time I talked men with a group of girls. I stood in my kitchen stirring batter for mini-cheesecakes, the kind you make with vanilla wafers and canned cherry pie filling and packages of cream cheese. Two of my sisters leaned against the tile counter, watching, waiting, and we talked about our husbands and lovers as our children built a blanket fort in the living room. My favorite sister's oldest girl, the one who looks like her father with her long sad face and crooked teeth, stood just outside the kitchen. She was at that awkward stage, between little kid and older kid, and she wanted to be part of the cooking, part of the dishing, so I pretended I didn't know where she was and called her name. I handed her the vanilla wafers and told her to place one in each muffin tin. Our talk wasn't ribald lewd like these party women, wasn't full of innuendo and sass, just discussion of longing and disappointments and hopes for some good clear future. I wondered what my sisters would make of this flock of earthy doves.

I cleared my throat and jumped into the conversation behind me, agreed that men lack tact, and pulled out a handful of brochures and samples and passed them around. Everyone held an arm out for a spritz of Today, but the conversation soon drifted back to men. We slowly filed in to the club.

Nearly every seat in the house was taken. Small circular tables of different sizes dotted the floor, two to six to ten seated together, and I scanned the room looking for an empty chair. I found one, up front near the stage, an empty table for two, and I plunked my purse on the plastic glass top and sat in a chair with a stuffed vinyl seat pad. I'd never been in a strip club before. The lights shone soft yellow, orange, rose, made every woman look good, gave us all glowing skin and luminous eyes. A hidden speaker system played upbeat rock numbers, artists like Prince and Black Eyed Peas, just loud enough to cover the roll boom of the voices around me. Several male waiters, each wearing black spandex shorts, no shirt, and a bow tie, circled the room, taking orders, flexing muscles, flirting and grinning. I fumbled through my purse and realized I forgot my wallet at home.

"Just a glass of water, please, no ice," I answered when a streaked blonde waiter sided up close and leaned over me, rippling abdomen shiny with some kind of oil that smelled of beach and sand and salt and a hint of musk.

"No problem, Miss, you want to keep your wits about you, eh?" He winked and whirled around to the table behind me, all the while shaking his bum.

Lord have mercy, I thought. Just then a drum-roll cut through the music.

"Laaaaaaaaadddiiieeees of San Deigooooooooo!!!!!! Please put your hands together and welcome our own Surfside Hotties!!!!!

The room exploded! Every woman in the joint jumped to her feet, hands slamming together over her head, as the loudspeaker blared the opening thumps to "Gonna Make You Sweat." The announcer followed the rhythm of the music and introduced each stripper as he took the floor. Each wore a miniature business jacket barely button under bulging muscles and pinstriped shorts.

Da da duh da Everybody dance now

"Riiiiiccckkkyyyyy!"

Da da duh da Everybody dance now

"Jaaaaaaayy Jaaaaaayy!"

The crowd screamed, clapped, stomped feet, and I felt a hot pair of hands push my back.

"Stand up girl!" The woman with the blue jumpsuit danced behind me, laughing, pointing at me to her fellow revelers. I shrugged my shoulders and stood, began clapping my hands and shuffling my feet in some kind of a manic dance in order to blend in.

Eight men stood in a line across the stage, arms akimbo, feet pointed outward. The rap section of the song began and the men worked in unison, flexing arms, then turning to reveal tight butts ready to burst from their shorts.

"Oh my GOD! I'm gonna use all my cash on Jay Jay. Look at that ass!" A voice to my left rose above the fray and I turned to watch the entire table blowing kisses and shaking cleavage at the Surfside Hotties. One petite woman in a peppermint red satin track suit grabbed the hem of her jacket and pulled up, flashing the stage. "Master Mark" pointed his fingers at her like a gun as he continued the routine.

My mouth hung open and I kept one eye on the audience and one on the stage, unsure which provided the better show.

And I'm here to combine
Beats and lyrics to make your shake your pants

All at once the Hotties threw their jackets in the air, revealing six-pack abds drenched in oil. They each took a different weight lifter's pose, flexing backs, arms, legs, chest, and the women around me grew warm and red, still clapping, shouting, yelling More! More!

I think I stopped clapping and shuffling my feet. I think I sat down, too, stunned by the actions of the women more so than the men. I'd never seen strippers of any gender before, and in my mind's eye pictured some kind of civilized party with chatter between table-mates, perhaps a nice ovation at the end, not this frenzied orgy of estrogen lust. I sipped my water, watching the women watch the men, missing the part where the men removed their shorts and began circulating the room.

"Jay Jay! Jay Jay!" The table to my left began chanting and I saw their object of affection slowly saunter to the table, clad only in a black satin g-string. The women sat down in unision, as if someone pushed their heads to the floor, and Jay Jay put his hands on his hips, making circle movements with his groin, circling closer and closer to the women. They howled in delight and grabbed green bills from their purses, waving them at Jay Jay, taunting him, taunting each other, and his hips came close enough to their faces so that they could lick him if they tried. He moved his hands over his head, grabbing one wrist with a hand and turned to bare his butt to them, and the women cried with glee and rewarded him with a grass skirt of dollars stuck under the thin black string of his uniform.

All around the room the same actions repeated. Strippers swung hips, women slung bills, some kind of strange mating ritual, each person reduced to a bare primal essence of sex and money and bad, bad music. I didn't notice Ricky approaching my table, didn't see him until it was too late, until he was grinding near my face, and I turned to see a satin package twirling before my eyes. Damn! I laughed and pushed my hands in the air as if shooing a dog home. No, no, I shook my head, and I pointed to the table behind me, go there! Go there! But Ricky smiled and continued grinding, waiting for a biscuit, wagging his tail, and the woman with the blue jumpsuit yelled "Give him some money, hon!"

I did the only thing a wallet-less Avon Lady could do. I stuffed a few Avon Ab Cream samples down the front of his "pants," grabbed my purse, and ran!