I will regret posting this

Just because I like it when people laugh and make fun of me …

I recently had a rather unique experience, one that either shows I’m getting old, I’m no longer a man, or that I’m into this writing thing waaaaay too much.

I went to a strip club. And had a lap dance. AND had a private dance in one of the back rooms. AND, yep, it’s not just the tops that come off.

Before you start thinking Ty has become some creepy old guy, let me explain a few things. First, this was only the second time I have ever been to a strip club; the first time was way back in 1990 when a friend of mine took me to such a club for my 21st birthday, and I was immediately turned off by the ugly music, the ugly beer and the ugly women.

Second, I didn’t actually WANT to go to a strip club this recent time. A friend of mine was getting married and he, his best man and other pals wanted to go to the club for his bachelor’s party. I didn’t really want to go. I had had no sleep the night before, was dead tired, and as I mentioned, had not had a good experience before at a strip club. But they needed a designated driver. So, a little arm twisting later, I trucked this group of guys (all of whom are much younger than myself) out for a night on the town.

When we get there, the drinks start flowing for everybody but myself (I had one beer, then switched to Diet Coke for the rest of the night, which was cool because our serving lady gave me the Diet Cokes for free), the lights are dim except for the flashing neon spotlights flashing in my face every three seconds and the dozen or so whirling, dizzying disco balls in the ceiling. Most of the music is heavy, but not real heavy, the kind of stuff you’d hear on hard rock radio, but not true metal (so, mostly, again, I hated the music). The walls are bright red slashed through with silver mirrors. The floor is fake leopard skin. The chair are basically leather couches you can sink into. The tables are small and wobbly and only there to hold your drinks or ashtrays.

Yes, I did watch a good number of the girls dance (and by the way, for anyone offended by my use of the term “girls” for grown women dancing fully naked on a stage … get over yourself … legally they’re women, yeah, but … come on, they’re dancing naked on a stage, they’re dancing “girls,” not dancing “women”). And I didn’t watch it for sexual purposes. I watched their talent. I watched their enthusiasm, or lack of. I watched the audience reaction (and for those of you who want to know, the majority of watchers were indeed male, but there was also a decent number of women and couples watching too). I asked questions of the dancers, some of whom were sweet and answered, but others immediately figured I was a cheapskate and fled. My lap dance and private dance were not my idea, but were forced upon me by a bunch of drunk guys.

And, for me, there was nothing carnal about any of this.

Why?

Because all the while I’m thinking, “this would be a great place for a story.”

That’s right. I sat there with naked women running all over the place, some even rubbing up against me, and all I could think about was how I could turn all of this into a story.

I get home, tell the other half this, and she laughs at me. Then says, “Yeah, I don’t have anything to worry about.”

Great. I’ve officially lost my manhood.

And now let the jokes begin.