Midcity (fiction) - The improbably buxom Vietnamese girl leaned over the table: "Another round?" "Sure," I said, like I often do, "Why not?" It is just this attitude that gets me into these sorts of situations. I am sitting in Ooh La La - a gentlemen's club minus the gentlemen - with a married man. I barely know him. I was more interested in his voice on the phone than the job he was recruiting for. Had agreed to coffee because he sounded cute and interesting. And he was - before he mentioned something about the wife. And kids. Not so interesting anymore.
So months later. . . he's in Midcity and so am I - bored out of my mind in the suburban Holiday Inn. "Let's meet for a drink," he suggests. Why not? "Sure, let's meet at your hotel bar." (Because mine is a sports bar where everything is fried.)
"I don't remember you being blonde," he says. Is that a compliment? So, good, this is just casual, he doesn't even remember what I look like. After a drink, I am starving and desperate not to eat in the Sports Grille (does the extra E make you feel better about eating there, alone? No, it doesn't.)
We get a suggestion for a lame touristy restaurant on Frontier Street. And to avoid stilted conversation (after all, we don't really know each other), he has prepared himself with two news items to discuss. This is how good I am with news items - I only remember the strange photo taken while Clinton made his humanitarian visit to bring back the reporters from N. Korea.
We are professionals, networking: "How is your new job?" he asks. Great. Except for all the lonely times in Midcity. We discuss brownfields developments, sustainability, all professional. But it is after the second beer that the conversation turns to condoms in the Standard Hotel in LA. [It dawns on me now that perhaps I was supposed to ask whether the Hotel M (his) has them.] Feeling awkward, I joke about they had to do that after lawsuits for unwanted pregnancies caused by inappropriate use of the ever-present free shower caps.
And, somehow that led to Montreal, where the strippers are gorgeous and encourage touching. So I hear. And then, because we are both from Southcity, the Gold Club came up. I have to share (these are strong beers) that I have a college friend who danced at the Gold Club to put herself through law school. I need to make that my story. But it would be hard to lie about law school. Don't laugh - that's just plain mean. That brings us to the conversation of which strip bars we've been to, and, weirdly, I have been to several - in DC, Montreal, Atlanta, New Orleans. . . One Christmas my roommates and I went to Tits R Us after our present exchange. Why not?
So maybe three beers later there are devils on both shoulders when we walk out of the mediocre restaurant and see the neon sign for Ooh La La. And...one drink? Why not? I am the only woman not working. We are the only people talking to each other. If it wasn't so wrong, it would be depressing. And our lovely waitress is far too attentive. Another beer? Why not? We finally look up at the dancers. They are exceptional in their ordinary-ness. I feel a little better about the junk in my trunk. The first inappropriate comment comes out: "I bet your boobs look like hers." Devil #1 says (just to me): wonder how far he'll take this. Is he a pig? Am I that interesting? Is he that lonely? But I am in control. I am not that girl. Or am I sort of that girl - is it wrong to be in a strip joint with a married man? We are just friends, right? He has clearly done this before.
"You've got to tip the dancers," says Devil #1, out loud. He does. How far can I push him? "You really should get a lap dance," says Devil #2. His angels are gone, too: "okay." I have to laugh at him pretending he hasn't already picked out a dancer. Then I have to laugh at his face. Guys are terrible at keeping a poker face when they get lap dances. So I hear. Inappropriate comment #2: "I bet you'd be good at this." Time to go. The Devils agree. His "poke her" face was pretty goofy.
