Oracle Online

I now know that, after diving into the “party hard” category, I am not entirely sure that I would like to stay there.

As I pulled into the parking lot of the Lamplighter Lounge, located near campus on Rice and Larpenteur, I felt knots in my stomach. I had heard from numerous people that this particular strip club was seedy and would make me feel used just by walking in the door.

All of those people were right.

I was with a close girlfriend of mine, and she was equally squeamish about the whole adventure. We only felt worse approaching the door, as we became trapped in a whirlwind of scraps of trash circulating in the wind in the entrance.

With dismay, we read the sign that said all patrons must be 21 years of age to enter.

Feeling lucky, I swung the door open and busted out my wallet, with a driver’s license that showed I was only 20 years old. Knowing that it would take a miracle for me to be able to stay and observe, I took in as much of the scene as I could. I began to chat flirtatiously with the doorman in hopes of staying as long as possible.

Crowded around the bar were old, balding men with beer bellies and stains around the armpits of their work shirts. As I calmly explained to the man working the door why I was actually showing my face in a trash heap such as the Lamplighter, I caught several men looking at every place on my body except for my eyes.

I thought about running right back out that door, but I secretly wanted to see more. Not only had I heard how vile the lounge itself was, but I had also heard how homely (to put it in polite terms) the dancers were.

At the bar, there were two dancers taking a break from dancing, playing cards with the men who were mostly likely taking a break from either their wife and kids or their well-used porno magazines under the sink at home.

The women at the bar did not look me up and down as the men did, but instead narrowed their eyes at me, most likely out of fear. Or perhaps they felt that my presence at the bar was potentially lessening the tips they would make that night.

Behind the bar there was a long stage with averagečor maybe even below averagečgirls rolling around and taking off skimpy, trashy lingerie behind a glass wall.

I hoped to myself that the glass wall had been erected to ward off wandering hands and not for other reasons one could possibly drum up.

I was expecting to hate myself and want breast implants at the end of the night, but the exact opposite happened. I realized that after watching roly-poly white girls with caked-on makeup flaunt their naked bodies in front of equally disgusting old men, the lounge actually boosted my self-esteem.

After spending a whopping seven minutes in the Lamplighter flirting with the bouncer, I began to hope that the clientÅle of the next locationčand the girls as wellčwere more attractive.

Our next stop was Schieks Palace Royale. Of all the strip clubs that I have heard of, this place was supposed to be the crown jewel. In preparation, I went online to the Schieks website. From the pictures and the prices, I knew that this lounge would be class all the way.

In comparison to the Lamplighter, Schieks really was a palace. The employees there were friendly and pleased to see two young women, a change from the suit-and-tie after-hours men that dominate the place.

As much as Schieks was cleaner and friendlier, however, I felt more comfortable at the Lamplighter.

The men lounging around the Schieks stage found great pleasure in trying to get my friend and me to socialize with them. We heard them mutter under their breath several comments about getting sexual favors from the two of us. As if I need to be a stripper to know when a man is being a pervert.

And the girls were mediocre at best.

An aside to any girl visiting strip clubs: Unless you want to be sexually harassed (even though you will be at any strip club), avoid Schieks. The commentary we received was the most graphic and derogatory of anywhere.

Next, Deja Vu. In preparation, we printed passes for free admission off the Internet.

As we opened the doors and absorbed plush, red velvet everything in the lobby, I noticed four men working at the door. I handed my free pass to the man taking cash from people, and he quickly told me it was expired.

I guess I had so much adrenaline pumping through me that I didn’t hear him and had already turned and told the other man that I should be able to get free drinks that night, instead of telling him I just didn’t want any at all.

“Free drinks!?” The man exclaimed.

With some slightly flirtatious banter on my part, my friend and I not only got in for free, but we received free drinks all night long as well.

Turns out the bouncer I was flirting with was the manager. He spent most of his shift that night lounging in the club with us, loading us up with soda and trying to convince me to become a dancer.

He was so excited that we were therečmaybe only because he said we were attractivečthat he gave us a thorough tour of the Vu, told us all about the girls, and spouted off benefit after benefit that the dancers receive.

Listening to a man my dad’s age tell me how I would make a killing as a stripper soon made me feel uncomfortable.

And as he claimed that these girls make a lot of money, I knew it wasn’t true.

How do I know this? Another advantage to being a girl in a strip club is that you easily make stripper friends.

Sorry, boys. The only way one of these girls will talk to you is if they are trying to scam you for money.

One girl ran over to us, pulled up a plush chair as close as she could to me and said “Yay! Someone to talk to!”

As fun as it was talking to this lovely girl, who just graduated from high school, it was also odd to have her push herself toward me, grab my knees, and say “Lucky me! Now I get to be between your legs!”

In comparison to the Lamplighter, the Vu is posh and much more youth-friendly than Schieks. And, with little to no garbage piling up on the street, I felt much better about the overall experience.

And it wasn’t only that most of the dancersčmostčare more attractive and shapely than the ladies of the Lamplighter and Schieks combined.

The first dancer my friend and I saw bordered on being too skinny. Truthfully, she looked like nothing more than ribs and kneecaps.

I had never seen a girl dance and I was surprised at how asexual it seemed to me.

Maybe it was that I am a woman as well, but I knew the fake smile on her face and the fake, hard look in her eyes, unforgiving as she plucked bills from lonely men in front of the stage.

She danced slowly, trying to not look awkward while swirling around poles.

I used to think that each and every dancer would be drop-dead gorgeous and have no flaws. Yet, I noticed pimples, cellulite, bruises, and scars on all the dancers.

These girls are just like every other girl out there.

For most people, strip clubs are all about titties and ass. But I felt more.

I felt connected with some of the girls. And, by the end of the night, I felt no different from them.