Horrible Valentine

​Sometimes You Can't Go Back

Lisa Sanchez
​Here is a secret that's not really a secret: I love strip clubs. I loved them a hell of a lot more a few years ago when I had just become old enough to drink, back when a two-story stripper pole was a shining beacon to a guaranteed good time. Most men I met reveled in the fact that I, a young, attractive (and obviously modest) lady, liked going to the strip club as much as they did. This is mostly due to the fact that I dated Grade-A quality creeps during what I refer to as the folly of my youth. But, in that situation, everybody won. I got to go to a strip club. He got to go to a strip club. We would both get drunk and applaud excellent booty claps. The world was our topless bar.
I made the harrowing mistake of allowing an ex-boyfriend to choose our near-nude destination one night along some desolate Akron strip (no pun intended). The area looked like an old west setting where adult book stores go to die a noble death. The strip joint my then boyfriend, let's call him Jack, had in mind was unceremoniously closed for some health violation or structural damage. I would believe almost any unsanitary reason, but, luckily, or unluckily, there was a similar club open just up the road. It was wedged between what I believe was one honky-tonk bar and a one-hole-in-the-wall bar. The strip club inside was a combination of both. I'm still as unfamiliar with Akron as I was then, so if anyone knows where this graveyard of adult cavalcade exists, please let me know so I can avoid it.
I can't directly recall the establishment's name, which is probably for the best, but I'd venture a guess it was called "Ricky's" or "Bully's" or some other ghastly, half-decked, cartoon-sounding country boy's name. As soon as Jack and I walk in, accompanied by his two friends, I immediately realized this strip club was no Christie's or Diamond's. Nope, this place gave grungy dives a bad name.
Now don't think I'm being too picky or prudish. As previously stated, I have a penchant for strip clubs. I'm not turning my nose up at girls whose tops don't match their shoes. This "Whitey's" or "Curly's" or whatever, had no stage. The bar barely stood upright, sagging, and weighed down by the palpable pounds of numerous strippers dancing on the chipped veneer. After we entered and I took a good, hard look, I realized exactly why the bar looked like it was under so much distress. There was a woman, blonde hair, neon green top, clear heels-the standard dancer uniform-with about six months of hard, ripe baby belly protruding over her G-string. Just a very pregnant lady dancing on a bar. Well, at least you don't see that every day.
We ended up getting drinks and sitting down for numerous inexplicable reasons that escape me at the moment. We were approached by several more unfortunate strippers, but thankfully not by the baby-expecting lady swinging for singles on the bar. If there is one thing that creeps me out more than pregnancy, it's a Day-Glo lime bikini top and pregnancy. The worst part about the whole experience was Jack and his friends acting, pretending, or actually believing that this strip club, this "Moosey's" or "Connie's", was not the definition of wretched nether forged from the scum of being. One of Jack's friends in particular, whether overcome by the desperation or insatiable urge for crotch crickets, disappeared for an hour with one of the less fortunate looking dancers of "Mugsy's" or "Joey's" or whatever you call it.
After this friend reappeared, the stink of regret and anxiety all over him, we decided to leave, having our fill of cheap beer and willing tits. The whole ride home Jack and I had to reassure his buddy that no, getting a blow job from a morose stripper was not the greatest moral failing. In between his frantic wailings and crying we agreed, yes, he could always get an STD test. Among his confessions and apologies we decided yes, twenty dollars is entirely too much money to spend in the backroom of a strip club that had carpet older than he was. For the entire ride home, still reeling from my own experience at the topless bar God forget, we had to stroke this gentleman’s ego because he didn’t have situational blowjob awareness.