Her head hung over the edge of the bar, dangling upside down between my friend and I, her long dark brown hair fanned out as a curtain towards the floor, while her naked body stretched away from us towards the stage. Her legs made a V that framed the far side of the stage.
Another night at the Acropolis.
The dancer, N., had been telling us how excited she was to be leaving Portland and going back to Las Vegas to do a photo shoot and enjoy the warmer weather.
“Are you going to work the Spearmint Rhino?1” my friend asked.
N. turned to look at me, her face expressing disbelief, then back at my friend. I laughed at her expression. N. gracefully lowered her legs and pivoted up and off the stage back to a standing position and moved towards the pole in the middle of the stage.
My friend looked confused. “What’d I say?”
I said to my friend, “You have to realize that the best clubs for guys are not necessarily the best clubs for dancers.”
N. heard my explanation and returned to us (we were the only guys at the rack; it was early in the evening). “See? Right? He gets it!” she pointed at me. “I don’t want to work at some place where you have to grind. I’m just not that into…” her voice trailed off.
N. was an older dancer, meaning she appeared to me to be in her mid to late 30s. She was tall (hard to tell exactly, because of her 8 inch clear plastic heels) and tanned and thin with a magnificent pair of well-done but enhanced breasts. Her face was plain, but lit up when she smiled in spite of needing some dental work. When I had first approached the stage I wasn’t sure how attractive I thought she might be; my philosophy in strip clubs is, if I don’t think the current dancer is my type, to just pass until the next one. But my friend had approached the stage as if drawn, and I went with him.
But the more we talked, the more interesting I thought she became. It was as clear a distinction between physical beauty and charisma as I could think of. I was impressed and now understood why N. was clearly a successful professional stripper.
The three of us continued to discuss various types of strip clubs and eventually segued into strippers who actually want to have sex with a celebrity and keep the baby (have you heard the story about the star of LOST and the exotic dancer from Bend?), while my friend and I tossed dollar bills on the bar.
And then N. finished her set, and K. took the stage.
Where K. was clearly younger than N., but just as thin. K. had not spent any money on medical upgrades that I could see. Where N.’s hair was long and straight, K’s hair was short and wavy.
And in spite of her newness to the “industry”, which I admit is pure speculation on my part, she had already done a photoshoot for Hustler.
She was dancing for us, when her attention was caught by something on the far side of the bar. She stopped, covered her naked breasts, and walked away from us. “This is a no-cellphone zone, sir,” she said, putting as much venom into the honorific as she could muster. Which was quite a bit. The guy she was talking to had an iPhone out, and was holding it up, camera lens towards the stage, while staring at the screen facing him. K. had a back and forth with him until he relented and put the camera away.
The pair of bouncers, stationed at the door, never looked up or moved from their seats.
When K. returned to us, she said, “You can’t take pictures in here.”
My friend laughed. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in a strip club, I didn’t even realize that you’d have to ban cell phones in here!”
K. nodded. “Yeah. Not that I care that much. I mean, I’ve got a spread in Hustler coming out. If someone wants to shoot a camera phone picture of me, that’s a hundred bucks. No sweat.” She laughed.
“Really? Hustler?” I asked. “How’d that happen?”
“A friend of mine set it up for me. She’s got connections in the porn industry.” I wondered at the euphemism once again; how “industrial” was dancing naked or having sex on camera?
Just another night at the Acropolis.
1 Careful – that site has auto-playing music.