THE STRIP CLUB

 

The chief (and perhaps the only genuine) charm of women is seldom mentioned by the orthodox professors of the sex. I refer to the charm that lies in the dangers they present. The allurement that they hold out to men is precisely the allurement that Cape Hatteras holds out to sailors: they are enormously dangerous and hence enormously fascinating. To the average man, doomed to some banal and sordid drudgery all his life long, they offer the only grand hazard that he ever encounters. Take them away and his existence would be as flat and secure as that of a milch-cow. Even to the unusual man, the adventurous man, the imaginative and romantic man, they offer the adventure of adventures. Civilization tends to dilute and cheapen all other hazards. War itself, once an enterprise stupendously thrilling, has been reduced to mere caution and calculation; already, indeed, it employs as many press-agents, letter-openers, and chautauqua orators as soldiers. But the duel of sex continues to be fought in the Berserker manner. Whoso approaches women still faces the immemorial dangers. Civilization has not made them a bit more safe than they were in Solomon's time.

H.L. Mencken, The Incomparable Buzzsaw

H.L. Mencken (1880-1956) American writer and journalist [Henry Lewis Mencken]

    I have heard it said, but don’t remember where or by whom that every generation thinks that history began the day they were born and that they invented sex or at least its enjoyment.   My response, 43 years ago at 20, and with my biting sarcasm was: “it didn’t?"  Mencken is correct. Technology has never altered the dynamic between a man and a woman.  I define historical progress as a steady if uneven reduction of risk.  That 18 year old kid shipped off to Japan in 1942 only to return in 1945 and find his true love betrothed to a stranger felt the same pain as a similarly situated soldier during the Peloponnesian War.   

    Which topic  brings me to a most unheralded institution in American culture:  the strip club.  Call it a "tittie" bar, gentlemen’s club, topless bar, go go bar, or whatever.  Non-existent is the American man who has never ventured into one of these fantasy emporiums and not walked out under the delusion that the flirtatious smile coming from the model on stage was anything but sincere.  If you meet a man who claims otherwise, you have met a bald faced liar.  Time has done nothing to alter this naïveté.  I remember my introduction to the genre.  1975.  The Admiral Wilson Boulevard.  The Oasis Motel.  Next to Camden, New Jersey, a perfect backdrop for this prurient imagery.

Minnie’s was across the street.  

                                    

It’s claim to fame was hosting Miss Vicky sometime in the mid ‘70’s after Tiny Tim married her on the Johnny Carson show.  It was one of the most viewed farces of the decade.  And after the inevitable divorce, she appeared here as a “celebrity.”  Her 15 minutes of fame.

These places were seedy and cheap.  But boy were they fun.  At least the dancers were real.  Unlike the dolled up girls and glitz palaces of today, getting “up close and personal” meant sucking on a left tit that tasted like a cheap cigar butt along with a whiff of stale Old Spice after-shave worn by the guy who stood next to you 20 minutes earlier pissing in a urinal.   And the girls had lives.  Instead of a silicone goddess lying to you about being a poor struggling single mom a la Striptease,

 

 you got a story about a biker boyfriend who shared her with his outlaw friends Hell's Angels style in some shitbox trailer home next to a blasting site.  All while they drank cheap vodka and smoked pot.  And unlike filmdom's nouveau strippers, she admitted she loved it.  Call it authenticity.   I prefer the no bullshit brand.  Honest.  Sincere.  Don’t pretend to be something  you are not.  So here's a salute to yesterday in all its bawdaciousness!

 

I prefer the no bullshit brand.  Honest.  Sincere.  Don’t pretend to be something  you are not.  So here's a salute to yesterday in all its bawdaciousness!