July 12, 2002 @ 2:24 a.m.
Back to the dens of Sin...

It started off being a fairly nondescript Thursday, but ended up being rather whimsical, and also involving a lot of naked flesh that wasn't mine (well, not all the time anyway).

Uni holidays are on, which often so far has meant my days consist of sitting around the house like the lady of leisure I'm not. Partly my patented antisocial-ness, and partly the fact that most of the people I want to 'catch up' with (or catch a cold from) are functional members of society, doing the 9-5 (bump and) grind.

So my housemate Deb and I are sitting in the loungeroom in the mid-afternoon. She's watching some crappy midday movie and I'm tearfully negotiating the Yellow Pages phonebook, having not been able to find the phone number of a shop I'm after despite two days of trying. We start talking lingerie and decide it's time to take a trip to Siren Doll in Collingwood, right after I take a shower and Deb combs her hair. Short time later and we're off, a frustrating drive delivering us to a haven of frilly and lacy and occasionally shiny scanties. There is oohing and ahhing and much trying on of garments. At one stage the authoress is prancing around with cleavage up to her ears (you think I'm not being literal) and Deb is contemplating what the skirty bit of a costume is actually supposed to do/look like. We can't work it out. In retrospect, I am still stumped. We venture up Smith St for coffee and teriyaki tofu steaks, and are bullied into having dessert by a rather dictatorial but ever-so-smiley waitress. To be fair, before tonight I never knew that banana fritter could actually taste good.

Then it's off to Brunswick to visit a friend of Deb's, and yet another friend turns up there. It's decided that Indian is the way to go for tea. I try to invite some of my own friends to prove that I actually have some, but evidently by their standards, most people have had dinner by 9:30pm. Pshaw.

Post-dinner entertainment? A group of hot-to-trot young girlie things that didn't include me and my friends and friends of friends might select a venue where there is dancing to be had and unwelcome sexual advances to gigglingly turn down. But because this is a group of me and friends et al, we decide to go to a strip club instead.

It's one of those upmarket dealie-bobs where the lights are low so you can't see the girls' cellulite or track marks. Er, I mean, to increase the sensuality of the atmosphere. It's decided sitting down is the way to go, so we scout out a table and some seats. There's a guy there but not all the seats are taken so we sit down. It takes him all of thirty seconds to lean over to me and leeringly ask "So, what are you doin' here?"
"Pretty obvious, isn't it?" I ask, gesturing in the direction of the stage. "What are you doing here?"
He ignores my question and focuses his gaze on my companions.
"Whatcher mates like about comin' here?" He's caught Deb's and Georgia's attention by now and they regard him with momentary curiousity.
"Why don't you ask them yourself?"
"They're you're mates, you should know why they like to come here." He launches into another vaguely accusatory sentence, the contents of which I've forgotten but which was well and truly enough to send the needle on my bullshit tolerance gauge to 'full'.
"Listen, if you're fucking going to hassle me-". My hand is raised in an unconscious but vaguely threatening gesture.
"'M not gunna hassle you," he mumbles. I give him an icy glare and turn away. A few minutes later he gets up and leaves the table. I settle in to watch the strippers in relative peace and comfort.

It's your standard basic boredom chic fare, and I find myself reflecting, not for the first time, that nudity itself really doesn't do a lot for me, unless it's rather specific people in question. I don't go to clubs to be turned on, but it surprises me how quickly I tend to get bored. I put this down, at least partially, to the lack of most strippers really doing anything interesting when naked or on the route to getting there. Also, possibly because I am a girl, I never get the attention from the strippers that the guys do, even when I sit right near the stage. Possibly they think I won't tip them like a guy would, which is a little unfair on me. Not only would I tip, but I'm willing to bet that my money is a lot less sweaty, too.

I was quite surprised, but also pleased, when Cake's 'Short Skirt/Long Jacket' kicked in, and started grooving in my seat and singing enthusiastically, like a retard at a youth camp singalong. I was disappointed when, during the song, all the stripper in question did was walk around in her short skirt and long jacket. I was tempted to cup my hands around my mouth and holler "GET YER GEAR OFF!", but did not want to lower myself to the boorish behaviour of some of the male members of the audience (which was possibly inspired by the members of the male members of the audience, heh heh heh. Oh I am a subtle wit.). The actual stripping part of the girl's routine was given over to 'You Can Leave Your Hat On'. I was less than impressed, as were my companions.

The highlight of the night was the girl who did the Tomb Raider routine, because she was cool and dressed in vinyl and had toy rayguns. And because she did somersaults and the splits. I have a deep respect for anyone who can do the splits. Overall, though, it was not realy an enjoyable outing. I'm not sure if I was in the wrong frame of mind, or whether it was the atmosphere or not, but I felt out of place and even marginally unhappy. Uncharacteristically, I was comparing myself (unfavourably) with the strippers and thinking some Very Dumb Thoughts. Moral of this part of the story, methinks, is don't surround yourself with scantily clad, 'perfect'-bodied specimens of your own gender when you're having a low self esteem week. Also, don't form emotional attachments to the strippers based on the cuteness of their little outfits. That was a really weird moment on my part, there. I kind of felt like Delirium in Sandman: Brief Lives when she's secretly whispering in all the guys' ears so they'll give all their tips to this one stripper she's taken a shine to. Except I was sitting down, and also not doing that.

I've got another engagement at another club next Thursday night. This could become a regular thing! "Thursday Night is (Naked) Ladies' Night!" Or perhaps not. Hopefully my self-esteem will be back to its usual majorly egotistical levels by then. Perhaps I'd better stick a "you're great!" type message to the noticeboard near my bed. A simple, self-affirming kind of reminder to wake up to and feel better over. "OI LUV, SHOW US YER TITS!" ought to do nicely.

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