No, I wasn’t dancing, so let’s clear that up first.
The hubby and I (I’ve disappeared for about 3 months now–what with getting married, honeymoon, moving, blah blah blah) were needing a night out. We were going to play last weekend, but he had a really nasty flu with a scorching temperature, so we wound up lounging most of the weekend. Come Wednesday, when he was feeling pretty much himself again, we decided to Get Out. Spring fever! We went out to dinner, and then decided to go to a fancy nudie place.
Some background–I’ve been curious about going to such a club for quite a while now. Actually, there were plans for doing just such a thing for my bachelorette party–then my bridesmaid planning the party got sick, and the whole thing fell through. (boooooo!) When I suggested going sometime, the hubby–understandably–lit up. (In fact, while we were planning the evening, Bri suavely suggested: “Let’s get out, do something. Go to a movie, go to a strip club, get dinner, go to a strip club, get a drink…”)
We went to what Bri described as the fanciest nudie place he’s been to, a place I’ve seen advertised (and laughed at often) called The Spearmint Rhino. I’m not sure what mint flavoring and endangered African wildlife have to do with nekkid wimmin, but it sure was a fancy place. All of the women were (fairly disappointingly) blessed with lithe bodies and gifted plastic surgeons. We saw more silicone last night than we’d anticipated; in fact, just two of the girls had real breasts. Still, the fake ones were very nice jobs.
The dancing itself was interesting. I liked how some moved, and I found it very strange that with nearly every dancer, they got naked below the waist before above it. Odd. I wasn’t particularly aroused, but I did make some mental notes of moves I’d like to imitate for the new hubby later on in a far more satisfying private dance. 
Only one of the many dancers walking around fishing for lap dances asked if either of us would want one–and that same dancer seriously asked us five or so times that night. I’d think couples are that rare in a strip joint, but still, we were largely left alone. And you know, that’s a good thing. Watching stippers is cool, but lap dances are still a little creepy for me.
I thought some of it just has to torture men. Not that they were complaining, but the men at the tip bar would have legs wrapped around their heads and crotches shoved within inches of their face–and yet could…not…touch. (That’s the only part that made me uncomfortable, really.)
It was “amateur” night–although none of the competing dancers were exactly neophytes. We made friends with a friend of a competitor, who explained that “Kris” actually dances regularly elsewhere. Apparently, “amateur” is someone who doesn’t work at the club, but does dance somewhere else.
Except one. Oy. The last dancer was definitely an amateur. She was about 10 years older than the others, and a bit more rounded and dimpled than them as well. She stripped down to an ill-fitting thong to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” and during one part of the dance–I kid you not–she laid out a beach towel, poured bottled water on herself, and then sprinkled a box of C&H sugar over her breasts. At the end of the dance, she was handing the box to a reluctant guy at the tip bar who, well, poured sugar on her. This was soon followed by “Stage maintenence to the dance floor!” over the PA system.
I’m not sure there’s much of a point to this, except to share the experience. It certainly was one, to say the least, and I truthfully really had a good time.
So there.
:mad: