Why I Don’t Take My Mom To Strip Clubs. Anymore.
I met a lot of interesting people in my first year of college. One girl, who ended up being my besty before the word besty existed (not that I’m entirely sure it exists now), had moved to Toronto from Ottawa, where she lived a very sheltered existence with her strict parents. My besty and I would have an absolute blast together. We went to the clubs every Friday and Saturday night, danced until 2am and then hit the after parties. When her birthday rolled around, however, she decided she wanted to do something different. She wanted to go to a (gasp) strip club. So I did what any true friend would do. I rounded up the girls (including my mom, of course) and made the plans.
The night of, we all went to the strip club where our reserved table, right near the stage, awaited. One of my more weird friends instantly fell in love with the first stripper to appear on stage. She bugged me for the rest of the night to introduce them to each other. I reminded her several times that just because I made the table reservation did not mean I knew the male strippers personally. Either she did not buy it or she kept forgetting because I had to tell her this a lot.
The birthday girl sat stone faced for the entire evening. If she did not lean over and whisper, “This is un-fucking believable.” on several occasions, I would not have known if she actually enjoyed herself or not. It was very obvious that my mother, on the other hand, enjoyed herself immensely.
“Mom,” I said for the umpteenth time, “Stop touching the dancers. It’s against the law now,”
“Lighten up, D.C. You’re the only one who thinks it’s a big deal,” said my mom as she surreptitiously snuck a peak under a man’s kilt. Okay, not so surreptitiously.
“Ma’am, stop touching the talent or we’ll have to ask you to leave,” said a large bouncer.
“I used to be able to touch whomever I wanted,” my mom sniffed.
“Jesus, mom. How many times have you been to a strip club?”
“You can touch me if you want, ma’am,” said the bouncer.
“Okay,” I cut his flirting short. “No, hitting on my mom.”
His eyes widened and he disappeared just as fast as he appeared.
Luckily for my mother, a portion of the evening did involve audience participation. We still weren’t allowed to actually touch the *ahem* talent but we were allowed to jump on stage and watch the men suds up before we used a shower nozzle to rinse them off. I thought it was a little tacky but my mom, the birthday girl, the crazy girl and I each took a turn. Well, crazy girl went up three times when her new crush soaped up but who am I to judge.
So the end of the evening neared, signalled by the distinct lack of firemen, police officers and doctors of love on the stage. All of the strippers seemed to be at the bar, where women were fawning over them. Crazy friend leaned over to shout into my ear, “You can introduce us now!”
“Mandy, for the eleventh time, I don’t know any of the…Oh fuck it.” I stood and smacked my mother’s hand as she lifted up the towel worn by one of the waiter / strippers. Weaving through a sea of drunk, giggling women, I made my way to the object of Mandy’s desire.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” He says, looking me up and down.
“So, uh, that’s some nice chainmail,” I say, referring to his metal links covering his otherwise bare chest. “Did you make that yourself?”
“Yeah, I did, actually. How did you know?”
“Oh, well my friend Mandy -.” I gesture for Mandy to head over. She attempts to look both aloof and surprised at the same time. “ – and I, we go to college together. She is in the metal working program.”
“Fascinating. And what program are you in?”
“Me? Well uh…Oh hey, here she is. Mandy this is….”
He filled in his name for us. I told Mandy that he made his own chainmail, suggested they talk about that for a while and then excused myself.
I made my way back to my mother and, about five minutes later a drink arrived, courtesy of chainmail stripper (I had already forgotten his name). Five minutes after that, he appears at my table and sits down. My mother reaches for him but drops her hand to her side when I glare.
“So, uh, where’s Mandy?” I crane my neck and my question is answered when I see her glowering at me from the bar. I turn back to chainmail stripper and note my mother had disappeared. She is dancing with birthday girl and my other friends. In a last ditch effort to save my friendship with Mandy, I gesture her to the table. She reluctantly joins us but only to grab her coat and purse, tell me I am a bitch for stealing her man, and then storm dramatically away. I roll my eyes and catch sight of my mother being escorted by a bouncer, all of my (remaining) friends in tow, towards me.
“So, um, we have to go now,” said my mom.
“Yeah, okay. Nice meeting you, chainmail stripper.”
“Wait, can I get your number?”
I jot down Mandy’s digits and then catch up with my mother and friends.
“Who wants to go to another bar?” my mom shouts, completely unperturbed by the fact that she was just kicked out of a strip club.
“Absolutely not,” I answered.
Unfortunately I was outvoted by every one of my girlfriends. Well, except for crazy friend who never actually spoke to me again. Sigh.