This Voyeur's Limits

One of the interesting elements of Napoleon Dynamite was its blending of decades and their respective styles. The clothes the characters wore were of the entire 80's palette. The music was an 8-Bit quality keyboard soundtrack. The walls were of 70's wood stylings. The gangster cousins of Pedro were of modern times, hobknobbing around in a hydraulic convertible. Napoleon jammed out to 90's pop (Jamiroquai) during his routine in front of the school. It's an interesting movie because you can't place the setting, time or city.

I think this is the same sort of scenario when it comes to strip clubs.

I visited Deja Vu for the first time tonight. We were there for research. Not that kind of research.

I went on a date there. My date happens to be doing an ethnography study on strip culture. She asked if on the day that we were going to be hanging out if I wouldn't mind accompanying her to a strip club. I said "Well . . . alright."

I did feel a little bit like Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate during the scene where he takes the younger Ms. Robinson out on a date. To try to get rid of her, having already had relations with her mother, he takes her to a strip club. A date to a strip club. That's a first.

But it was interesting. It was extremely uncomfortable. Not the date, but Deja Vu. I hate this place.

This place is stuck in a time warp much like Napoleon Dynamite. You enter into a hallway resembling a convention ward in a hotel. The carpet is dark, the walls are dark, the lights are dimmed (very 70's feeling). A bouncer dressed in a tuxedo tells you to step behind red velvet ropes. He asks, "Have you ever been here before?" He tells you the rules. Nine dollar cover, nine dollar pop drinks (no alcohol). The nine dollars will get you free refills all night long. "Go in and enjoy yerselves," he says as he steps out of the way.

You enter into the main stage area (passing a heavily made-up woman leaning seductively against the wall, pursing her lips. I thought of another scene in The Graduate: "One word, son, are you ready? Plastics."), somewhat reluctantly falling into another velvet rope trap as you go up to the bar. After you get your nine dollar pop, you are spit out into the seating area. Tons of tables with two seats and a candle on top, couches along the back wall, and a long table at the front surrounding the stage look on three brass poles coming from the heavens (the second floor). Lone dancers strut their moves (the only bearable part of the Vu proceedings, I felt) with full on arials and flashes (they go full out nude sans their two foot stilletto heeled shoes). After three songs, the entire crew of ladies come onstage, awkwardly looking sexy in the most god awful "sexy" costumes on the planet.

Nothing's changed. Nowhere do heels that large exist other than strip clubs and sex shops. I have a clothing fetish, but those heels just look plain stupid. The costumes are all cliched: school girl, sports girl, cut T-shirt showing bottom boob (which is somewhat alluring, I guess), swim suits, lingerie from 1995. It's boring.

Although, a woman came up to us in a sheer gown she made herself. That was nice. We commented to her that we liked the gown, and she told us all about what she does for a living besides working the Vu. She is a seamstress.

When these women come up to the stage it's a signal that they're about to work the crowd for sales. They step off into the crowd (of which there were four other men, sad, older, alone, somewhat overweight. Creepy.) and pick their victims. The ones that bite go off to private sectors (the aforementioned loungey couches along the outer wall) to have lap dances. Apparently, you also go upstairs for a private dance, but if you're really willing to spluge (uh, figuratively), you can get a private BED for $90 on the third floor.

We kept having women come up behind us. "Are you guys interested in a private dance at all?" We kept looking at eachother smiling. "No, I think we're okay." "Okay, sure thing, honey."

It was uncomfortable to have all of the women onstage, making eye contact with me from time to time, and have them come over to ask to have fake sexual encounters. If I was drunk, really drunk, maybe. But I can't do that. I need more. I need to have something else underlying my sexual encounters.

I need the possibility of a relationship. Otherwise I feel fake. I feel like I'm disowning myself. I always want to be the best guy sexually. I'll be your best. How can I be the best when I can't do anything and I'm coughing up $20? It's boring and pointless to me. If someone else is paying, sure, I'll play along. But then I'll want to be the best customer, the guy that very politely says, "You were wonderful. I really liked it when you did this and this." Basically, I'd like to give the girls a different scenario than what they do normally. Be the best customer.

I'd want to talk to them. If it costs $20, so be it. At least it will be a customer they'll remember. I wouldn't need a lapdance. I'm good with sitting and talking.

Because there you open up the gates to a friendly relationship outside of the complex if both so desired.

I would not by any means act like Clive Owen in "Closer":


We sat for maybe a half hour before feeling uncomfortable enough to leave. I'll go there again, but only with a large group. And only if I'm properly schnockered so as not to brood on the uncomfortable nature of all the girls awkwardly thrusting onstage with vicarious men/women staring at them.

Whew, that place gives me the creeps . . .

NERD -- "Lapdance (Trent Reznor Remix)"