She called herself Hunter. And, with a name like that you’d think I was chatting with a stripper in Portland – and it just so happens I was.
Hunter was cheerful, not like some of the other dancers whose eyes had glazed over long ago from one too many bored, gyrating hip thrusts in the direction of wolf eyes. No, when Hunter got on stage she smiled almost to the point of laughter. She clearly loved to dance or maybe she simply enjoyed all the attention. She had long, brown wavy hair, a pixie nose, and hips that would have commanded lustful attention even at the Jamestown colony. Puritanical convention be damned.
It was the first time I had been to a strip club. From the stories I had heard, Portland seemed like a good place to see what all the fuss was about. And, try not to be shocked, but I was 35-years-old and it isn't a mystery why I waited so long to visit one. I was frightened. For starters, I was scared of trying something new and, for me, going into a strip club yielded a discomfort very similar to having sex for the first time. With that said, I worried more about what others would think of me. I worried they would believe I didn't respect women, that my blend of feminism had a backbone no stronger than the hard dick in my pants, which (let’s face it men) isn't very strong on its own. Like me, I know most of you dudes have hung a “heavy” bath towel from your penis just to see if it can also operate like a strong coat hook. Be that as it may, I seriously doubt you or I can carry the plight of women on our dicks. And, shamefully, so many men seem to think this. What’s more, despite the argument that sex work can sometimes be empowering for women or even a marker of feminism, I was still uncomfortable because of the respect question.
In the end, however, my curiosity got the best of me and I found myself listening to advice my father once gave me: “Sometimes you just gotta put your dick in the wind.” His words often still resonate in my life. And, surprisingly, I was also listening to the advice of my partner at the time. She implored me to have fun because, as a woman who primarily identified as a lesbian, she understandably struggled to completely fulfill my needs. Love is quite strange sometimes, isn't it? But, all of that is quite another story.
I ended up enjoying my time at the Portland strip club. It was known for its “high contact” and Hunter did not belie this notion in the least. She put her boobs in my face and even spent some time “sitting” in my lap. She also whispered a lot of sweet nothings in my ear like, “You’re cute,” or “I love your hair,” or “Your tattoos are interesting.” We made a bit of small talk. We spoke about art. We talked about ballet, which I studied for a couple years as an adult. I had recognized a dance move she made, which was something like a rond de jambe en l’air. And if you know anything about ballet or French for that matter, then you’d know how sexy that would look, especially when executed by a stripper. I liked Hunter. She seemed stand-up. She was smart and confident.
Hunter asked several times that evening if I wanted a “real” dance, but I declined respectfully each time. Truth be told, I was too unnerved by the notion of a lap dance. Besides, having a naked woman sit in my lap, off-and-on, all evening was enough. Plus, I had frittered away all of my money on the stage. I said goodnight, wished her well, and left for my hotel.
Almost two years later and back home in Seattle, I visited my best friend Alex at the Hideout. She worked the bar for several years and had a deeply resounding presence there. Alex was that kind of bartender, warm and responsible, but also up for anything. I visited her often at the Hideout. She and many of the other folks there made it a safe watering hole.
It was the last Sunday of the month, which called for the style and grace of Ivan and his karaoke machine “Baby Ketten.” These Sundays were cacophonous! Many people waited with bated breath the entire month just to sing their favorite anthem at the Hideout.
The crowd was especially mirthful and debaucherous that evening. Alex, as she was wont to do, would briefly step away from her mixology duties and sing a song or two. And when she took the microphone in her hand she would always bashfully say, “Hi, this . . . this is my first time.” The people who knew Alex loved this comment and even waited for it. We all laughed heartily whenever she joked.
The folks were particularly talented that night. I recall some wonderful performances, but there was one gal who stood out. She had a voice that soared. It seemed belting out love ballads were no more difficult for her than drinking a glass of water. She hit every note just right, every time. This woman sang only a couple times really, but I found her quite interesting – in a confusing sort of way. You see, I thought I recognized her, but I simply couldn't place where I had previously seen her. The name Ivan used to call her to the stage didn't help at all. He’d yell, “It’s time for Kelly to come on up to the stage! Where’s Kelly!?” I’m pretty certain I shrugged my shoulders over her name while sipping bourbon.
Last call.
Then, the lights came on. The music stopped. Everyone squinted through the bright blur and shuffled out the door. As was customary, for Alex’s safety and my own, I stayed until the last patron had left. The last person, as you likely guessed, was the woman named Kelly. She closed out her bill and between writing the tip and signing her name she gave me a cheerful grin. I returned the smile, still unable to think of where I had met her. After she politely thanked Alex, Kelly walked right up to me, put her arms around me, and whispered in my ear.
She said, “You’re cute.”
Before I could say anything, she left my side and bolted out the door. I hollered after her, but she didn’t return. And, suddenly, it occurred to me why I didn't recognize her.
She was wearing clothes.
