My First Time at the Strip Club
Another encourages us to smack her ass when we stick dollar bills beneath the string that passes for underwear, even though I don’t think it’s technically allowed. Sometimes the girls test the limits enforced by the burly bouncers. “If I was a guy and I was here,” she said, “I’d wanna smack some ass.” There’s a blurring of the boundaries with every woman: the men often slap dollars against their backs, rub them down, grab a little flesh as they tuck in the bill, as long as it’s furtive and fast. A few women had a trick: you put a dollar over their hearts, and they pushed their breasts together to grab it.
After a few hours, my friend and I decided it would be smart to leave. I went to get our other friend, who was across the room, staring at a dancer. I practically broke him from a spell. “I’m glad you you came and got me,” he told me later. It’s easy to go through a lot of dollars here. Later, when we were in a non-topless bar—which takes its own getting used to, like readjusting to dry land after getting your sea legs—we compared how much money we spent. My tab ran slightly more than half of theirs: just about $60. “Well, you had some beers,” my friend explained, breaking it down. “And you gave $25 to asses.”
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