One of the first things I learned about Portland upon arriving there was that it apparently has some of the best strip clubs in the country. I didn’t know how or why this was true yet, but my friends who lived there insisted that it was. I believed them wholeheartedly. I put on a low-cut dress and some sparkly shoes, and off we went.
It turns out that the reason Portland’s strip clubs are so great is partly a legal one: unlike clubs in some other states, they’re allowed to show you full nudity on stage – and to serve alcohol. While I’m sure that’s a combination that can get messy at times, on the night I took advantage of these two freedoms, it was nothing but bliss.
My friends and I crowded along the tip rail, clutching dollar bills and cocktails. Boobs were shoved in my face. Thighs were parted directly in front of me. I could hear the squeak of hot skin against the metal pole. My glasses – worn so I could see the dancers’ beautiful bodies better – were complimented and then removed from my face to prevent them from getting smashed by errant legs. It was a whirlwind of soft flesh, big beats, sweet drinks, and good vibes. I threw money onto the stage with abandon during every dance, mesmerized.
I thought of this recently when I read sex journalist Tracy Clark-Flory’s new memoir Want Me, in which she recounts – among numerous other things – many a night spent as a customer at local strip clubs, drinking in the atmosphere, tipping dancers, and intermingling bittersweetly with the raucous dudes in the crowd. While acknowledging that strippers are people and that sex workers don’t deserve to be reduced to stereotypes or props, Tracy also notes that being in that type of sexually charged space made her feel empowered and excited, in a way that may be unique to female clientele at strip clubs. It’s a very particular experience, and one that I miss, despite only having tried it once.
That’s right – I, a seasoned sex writer, have only been to a strip club ONCE!! This is 100% just because of social anxiety – I basically can’t go to unfamiliar places without someone to accompany me, and such plans have never lined up quite right for me to be able to check out a strip club in Toronto, where I live. I dearly wish I was the type of woman who could be brave enough to stroll confidently into a strip club, solo, but that’s just not who I am (yet?). I could always look into making a private exotic dancer booking, for a less nervewracking experience, but I miss the atmosphere of a strip club itself just as much as I crave seeing strippers show off their talents.
The pandemic has been a potent time for reflecting on regrets, and fantasizing about the future. Everyone I know seems to have a mental list of things they want to do, people they want to see, and places they want to go – whether for the first time or the hundredth – when they’re safely able to again. The more that I think about it, the more I realize that going to a strip club is one of those wistful wishes for me. In many ways it feels like the polar opposite of what the pandemic has entailed: people crowded closely together, maskless, eating and drinking and staring up at charismatic naked beauties on stage. I’m no expert, but I would imagine that a lot of the people who regularly go to strip clubs do so in part because they like the bustling and in-your-face vivid vibe of that environment – otherwise, wouldn’t they just stay home and watch striptease videos? – and all these months of social distancing have given me an increased appreciation for that type of energy.
I’ll still be deeply nervous when I eventually go to a strip club again, I’m sure. This year of lockdown hasn’t magically transformed me into a shameless extrovert. But I think I’ll have an even greater appreciation for strip shows now than I did before, especially having seen how much sex workers – an already profoundly stigmatized and marginalized group – struggled to make ends meet during these lean times.
I’m not really religious, but I could see how going to a strip club after a pandemic could be a spiritual experience. What secular act could be more church-like than gathering in a darkened room with other congregants, imbibing sacred libations, and tithing dollar bills to dazzling goddesses dancing under dappled lights?
This post was sponsored. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.
