Friday, June 13, 2003.

Italicized lyrics from: "She's a Beauty" by The Tubes,
the ultimate stripper song.

In the mail: Koyote, and BabyVOX lingerie photo album.

Sad because: I will be missing this Corean festival on June 28.
Unless of course I get fired for writing about going to strip clubs.
16 K-pop groups and I actually like two of them!

OFF TO SEE THE STRIPPERS

[ ... continued from previous entry ... ]

"Where are we?"

"We're on Eight Mile. I grew up around here. That side is all black. That side is all white. They just try to act like they're black," my brother-in-law Broken Fist explained.

"Are you sure this place is safe?"

"Downtown Detroit isn't bad. Uptown Detroit is bad. They keep the strip clubs safe for customers here.

"Should I leave my wallet in the car then?"

"NO. You can't trust the valets."

BAR ONE

Step right up and don't be shy,
because you will not believe your eyes.

Excitement. That's what it adds up to when you feel the boom of the music, register the flashing lights, absorb the faint perfume, go into mindlock upon seeing these impossibly constructed naked girls prancing around you. If temptation is the path to damnation, then we had reached the end of the yellow brick road to hell.

"Always tip the doorman, in addition to whatever the cover charge is," Broken Fist said slipping an extra ten-spot to the 300-pound flying monkey watching the door.

[CHARGE: The usual rate is something like $0-5 for a seat at the bar/stage, $10 for a table, $20 for a booth in the back. In addition to the cover charge. In Detroit at least.]

With that, we were greeted into the Emerald City - a place where the only thing that truly matters is green.

So, these four Coreans walk into a strip bar. They get seated at a table and one of them says to the other:

"I'm so used to seeing strip clubs in video games, this is kind of surreal," I told Kevin.

[VIDEO GAMES with strip clubs: BMX XXX, Grand Theft Auto:Vice City, Deus Ex, Bladerunner, Duke Nukem, DOAX Volleyball … oops, that last one just has girls in bikinis.]

The first bar was topless only but most of them didn't walk around that way. Even so, it was quite enough just to see them move. On stage, they made every effort to welcome you with open heels to the Camelot of Cameltoes.

ORIGIN OF THE BLACK MAGNET

Earlier that night, Kevin had mentioned that African-American girls seemed to befriend him the most in his classes. This became a running joke when no less than five minutes after sitting down, the only black stripper on the floor decided to use Kevin's lap as her personal sofa.

And thus the legend of The Black Magnet formerly known as Kevin was born.

[ETIQUETTE: Now this is not unusual. Sometimes the dancers just need to rest. Sometimes they are trying to get free drinks or a lap dance. Sometimes they just want nice conversation. But after ten minutes, they may just have to move on. Girl's got bills to pay.]

This dancer pretty much stayed on Kevin for the rest of the night though. You do the math.

 

IN DA KLUB

You can step outside your little world.
You can talk to a pretty girl.

I have to admit I was a bit nervous at first. My white shirt glowed conspicuously under the dark lights in contrast to the shadowy regulars dressed in black at the bar. (A)Morally, I was torn by my desire to soul-suck the very essence of all the nubile nudeness around me, versus my reluctance to take on the mantle of hardcore pervert.

While this internal debate of Peace Corps versus Hard Core churned within me, one of the brunette strippers who had been talking to Broken Fist tapped me on the shoulder and said,

"Hey, I know you."

"What?"

"No, really. You look very familiar."

"I'm pretty sure we've never met."

"I've seen you before somewhere, yeah."

"Um, I don't think so."

Was this a scam for rubes? Was she a patient or family of a patient I had seen before? Was I going to see my face on Channel 7 News with the headlines "A real life Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde. Is your doctor making house calls at the strip club? Our Hall of Shame story at eleven."

"What are you? Your race, I mean?"

"I'm … half-Corean," I said with both trepidation and fascination at her well-aimed inquiry.

"I thought so. I do know you."

Oh my God. My website.

"You were at Broken Fist's birthday party last year," she smiled, and I suddenly felt relieved and flattered that she remembered who I was. I hadn't even talked to her at that party.

But I recalled who she was then - the girl with the plunging neckline, the heaving bustline, and the Asian boyfriend. Everyone noticed her.

[ACTUAL SAYING: You know you're a stripper when … you turn everyone's head when you walk into a room.]

After she said bye, Broken Fist turned to me,

"Dude, I used to hang with her. I can't believe she started stripping again. She's too nice for this place."

[ETIQUETTE: Unless she's a real friend, most strippers don't like it when guys try to "save" them or say "what's a nice girl like you…" etc. It's judgmental and a bit hypocritical. Many of them actually like their job, the dancing part, not the rude customer part. Most aren't into prostituting themselves either. They like the attention, in much the same way that you like the attention. The difference being that you are paying them.]

Broken Fist didn't get any lap dances on any of the nights we went out. He already had his fill in years gone by. I wondered what he was getting from all of this. He always knew the best places to go though.

The rest of us weren't so restrained.

 

MY PRIVATE DANCERS

You can say anything you like,
but you can't touch the merchandise.

[ETIQUETTE: Let me first explain what a lap dance entails (pun intended). Lap dances can vary from very physical grinding to no contact at all ("air dance"), depending on the club and the dancer. This does not mean the dancer wants or expects you to lose control of your bodily emissions though, any more than she wants you to sneeze on her. Their dance is a "sexual simulation," a fantasy, but not an act of prostitution. There's no touching from you, no kissing or licking body parts (even if she puts it right in front of your face), no "taking it out" a la Seinfeld either. A dancer will let you know if you can touch her somewhere by putting your hand there. There are always exceptions to the rules but you had better just expect the rules.]

So what kind of girls did we get dances from? Mark likes the short, petite girls. Often blonde and definitely cute. The Black Magnet formerly known as Kevin eventually caved and got one (or more) from his African-American princess. I had been holding out for a girl I spied upon arrival.

Archangie was shorter, with a wide gently sloping forehead, her hair pulled back in exotic ties, skin like melted caramel. She wore heels (they all do) and frilly socks that glowed like her mini-top and lacey micro-skirt in the dark lights. She had this soft yet firm muscle symmetry that echoed primeval hypnotic signals to my limbic pleasure centers with every floating step.

I was too shy in the beginning to look at her and get her attention. [They like it when you stare - that's how they know you want a dance from them.] After an hour, I figured she must have left. As the night was fading, another stripper, Wolverina, sat next to me,

"Hi," she smiled aggressively, "It looks like you're having more fun than I am tonight."

"Really?"

[ETIQUETTE: I didn't realize it at the time, but this was a polite but subtle hint that there were too many guys watching the girls and not enough buying dances from them. Dancers are paid like waittresses - they make their money in tips, the tips in this case being $20 'lap dances.' In fact, most clubs actually charge dancers anywhere from fifty to hundreds of dollars just to 'advertise' on stage. Then they need to tip-out and pay the manager, the doorman, etc. This is why they are always on the hustle. Baby girl needs a new pair of heels, I guess.]

"A little. You're new here, aren't you?," and with the feral charm of a weretiger in heat asked, "Care for a dance?"

"Sure."

Feeling a bit like Little Red Riding Hood, Wolverina led me by the hand to a dark curtained room in back.

There were two other dancer-customer couples in the shadowy alcoves. One of which was Archangie, the braided caramel girl I had been waiting for all night. Damn.

Wolverina may have been the smallest femme in the club (in every way, 32A-23-33, per my adolescent Playboy training), but she was all animal - and possibly part machine. Her hands, her head, her entire tight body was Weapon X in jackhammer mode. At one point she pulled my shirt out of my pants. It was later that I realized this was to prevent her from rubbing on my belt buckle.

[ETIQUETTE: Strippers prefer guys without big belt buckles - even fashionable Corean buckles. Or even belts. They also like customers clean shaven in case they rub against your cheek. Sweatpants are a sign of a sicko who expects to graduate magna-cum-rowdy during the lap dance. Dancers do not appreciate sweatpants freaks who make the sticky pants.]

While standing above me, Wolverina would playfully push her head against my forehead. This made me smile since Sun Su and I play this headbutting game all the time. Without the heavy ear breathing part.

Her dark curly hair seemed to keep her face in shadow. Eyes hid behind heavy Bette Davis lashes. I could just make out her smile, slightly askew and knowing.

She grabbed, pulled, pushed, and sneered. Then she was done and said "Thank you" like a pussycat with a tail in its mouth.

I did manage to sneak a guilty peek at Archangie when she wasn't looking.

 

THE GOOD WITCH

She's right here behind the glass.
You're gonna like her,
'cause she's got class.

Just as I had given up hope of seeing Archangie again, she appeared on stage. Despite the music, she hardly needed to dance. She just sauntered, languidly stretched on the stagefloor like a cat from a nap, and then sauntered again. With each step, it was like the very fabric of the reality around her would bend in Matrix-like deference to her undulating form and grace.

Yo, that shit was a'ight.

I must have stared a lot. I think I tentatively put up a hand like a shy kid in a classroom at the end of her dance. Whatever it was, she came and sat next to me.

I was a little too nervous to really say much other than simple chit chat. I got the feeling she just wanted to rest. Talking meant leaning in to listen or speak, and I was still mentally recording her face.

Broken Fist leaned forward to say, "You have a very exotic look. Are you mixed?"

"I'm half black and half Irish," she said.

"I really like your look," he continued.

"Do you give dances or are you kind of resting now?" I interrupted, countering a perceived cock-block attempt from my brother-in-law like a desperate college boy. Sometimes I really wish I could say "It was the alcohol."

 

ALL THAT'S GREEN ...

She'll give you every penny's worth,
but it will cost you a dollar first.

Back room again. It wasn't so much the dance that I wanted but just her undivided attention and company.

Archangie was much more gentle than the aggressive Wolverina. It was nice when she'd just sit with her back against my chest for a moment. I've been missing things like that…. I know it's all a fantasy, a pathetic male ego trip, but the attention was much appreciated. It was a nice fantasy ego pampering session for a short time. No disapproval. No being taken for granted. No cold shoulder. No television. No falling asleep too early. No frustration. More conversation would have been nice but you can't eat your cake and talk to it too. Especially for twenty bucks.

The more she disrobed, the more secrets were revealed. She had an ornate winged tattoo over one of her B-sized breasts, and piercings in each nipple. There was an angel flying just above her buttocks in sync with her sacrum.

Her eyebrows were gentle round arches and her eyes were spaced slightly wider apart, giving her a placid yet distant divine look. They were forest green.

 

"Did you guys have fun tonight?" Broken Fist asked in the car.

"Yeah, it was cool."

"This can be addicting," I added.

"Scott, man, did you like that last girl?"

"She wasn't as physical as the first one was - that girl was a machine - but I liked the last dancer more. She was just … so pretty."

"Dude, I've never seen this side of you before," Broken Fist roared, "You didn't even go to my bachelor party. I always thought you were like some kind of robot or something."

"Oh, Scott is all about the T & A, heheheh," so said The Black Magnet formerly known as Kevin.

"Let's go out tomorrow night."

"You want to? I know some clubs in Canada," our lion-like leader offered.

 

When we got home, I peeked in on baby Sun Su, sleeping sideways in his crib again. I wished he would open his shiny little eyes. I was hoping Amy would be awake too, so I could tell her about my adventure or at least forget about my adventure.

I snuck into bed careful not to wake my precious Amy. She hates being disturbed at night, even before the baby.

The Tin Man contemplated what the Good Witch had shown him that night, trying to distinguish imaginary forests from real trees as reality rebounded back into place and enveloped him like a familiar bed and a favorite blanket.

_________________________________________________

MEDEA SIN HOT MODEL

Today's HOT MODELS are

ARIA and SHEFF.

This picture with Sheff and his then-girlfriend now-superhot-pornstar, Aria Giovanni, was just too good to be true. Who knew that she was also a reader of my site? That may not be an officially sanctioned Medea Sin shirt but I'm not complaining.

I remember reading Sheff's stories about dancing and dancing and ... um, dancing, back in the day when he and Danny would just yell back and forth at each other in their journals. He's also an incredible painter and artist as shown on his site. Thanks for sharing the awesome picture Sheff.

As a major fan, one can never mention Aria Giovanni enough times on their site.

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