I Think That Stripper Likes You

You’ll find this hard to believe, but I used to date.

I know! I know! But there you have it. Totally true.

In the early 90s, it was my pleasure to have dated a man who came with friends, a number of friends who would have preferred that he be female-free.

Do you know the type? I had stepped on the season of their fabulousness, put a big, high-heeled foot in the middle of their plans for a debauched summer.

As my boyfriend’s birthday approached, they assured me they had it under control. That’s okay – I had a lot going on, so sure! Tell me what I should bring to the party and we’ll see you there, huh?

Hmmm.

I’ve learned a lot since then, primarily that when you let guys like that take over party planning, you’re going to end up averting your eyes.

Shall we skip straight to the averting of the eyes? Because it could’ve been held at any seedy, underground-style bar. There could’ve been any number of people from anywhere in the world wandering around and muttering to themselves in Drunkish.

She was dressed as a nurse. You know, the kind that show up around Halloween: white fish net stockings, a little white cap on her head, a tiny white bra, a tiny white g-string, six-inch white stilettos.

You’ve been to the hospital, right?

Boyfriend was not happy. This was not to say that he didn’t like mostly-naked women. Mostly-naked women was one of his favorite things. But he had a woman. A steak-at-home versus hamburger-out monologue ensued wherein he sought to assure me that a lap-dance from the guys was not what he wanted on his birthday and that he wanted to leave.

I couldn’t stand to see him so nervous.

I approached the nurse.

“Hi. You see that guy over there? His friends have paid for a lap-dance from you for his birthday. But he’s really shy, and we haven’t been dating long…”

“Oh, honey,” she interrupted. “I can be really nice to him if you want.”

“Would you? That’s so sweet,” I said. “You have lovely legs, do you know that?”

The girl blushed and pulled one leg up behind her head in a stunning arabesque. “I was in gymnastics in high school. Went to competitions and everything. Look.”

She did the splits.

“I can see that,” I said. “You’ve got a great body.”

She smiled up at me, still in the splits. “I’ll be really gentle with him, nothing dirty, okay?”

“OK.”

And when the music changed, and they put Boyfriend in the hot seat, this simple, beautifully limbed woman gave one of the cleanest lap dances I’ve ever seen, leaning into him coyly, running her fingers through his hair.

Throughout the performance, she looked to me, giving me the “OK” sign several times, and, in a move that I am still in love with purely for its complete lack of guile, pushed her perfect breasts inches from his embarrassed face, pulled back and winked – at me!

It was damn-near tasteful.

She brushed by me, when she was finished. “How’d I do?” she whispered.

“You were great,” I said.

“Hey – can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I think I should go to school to be a veterinary assistant. Do you think I’d be good at it?”

Even today, it breaks my heart, how sincere she was.

“Absolutely,” I said. “I can see you doing it, too. You’d be great.”



Even today, I hope that she became a veterinary assistant. I’ll bet she’s great at it.