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 - By Dorothy Parvaz
 - Arizona Daily Wildcat
 - January 17, 1997

Arizona Daily Wildcat


The Unbearable Lameness of Stripping

Oh man, I just don't dig hanging out outside strip bars. I wasn't so sure that I wanted to hang out inside one either. After pacing outside the club for about 10 minutes, its tawdry neon lights shining on our faces, Tom and I decided to go in.Club 151 offers female strippers on Monday nights and male strippers on Friday nights. I handed the requisite tough-guy-at-the-door fellow a ten, he handed me a one, and we were in.

The place, as you'd expect, was poorly lit. There were about 20 guys in the place, watching football on the television behind the bar. They looked sober. They looked like guys you see at the library, all college sweat-shirts and faded baseball caps.

Other than a banner advertising the entertainment to come, the place just looked like your average lame bar on a Monday night.

That place wasn't for me. I don't even like football, let alone football in an strip bar for under-age boys.

Then the television was turned off and the DJ began to spin exceptionally bad music. I hope he didn't choose the music he was spinning. I hope they paid him extra for subjecting us to that crappy top-40 tripe with tinny beats and nasal whines.

An announcer, sounding more like an amateur auctioneer than an emcee, started rambling about "hot ladies" and lap dances. The crowd was silent. Then Mad Dog the announcer barked at us, ordering us to applaud, so we did. A lame, limp-wristed, scattered kind of applause.

The "hot ladies" walked onto the small stage, five of them, all lined up. Aside from looking cheap, they were pretty. They were wearing short, tight clothes and high heals. Their body parts were packed like sausages in shiny metallic spandex. They didn't look thrilled to be there.

The girls writhed on the stage, looking bored as Mad Dog introduced them and informed the audience that tipping the girls was okay, and rattled off the rates for a little personal attention from the girls. For $5 and up, the bored dancer of your choice would come up to were you sat, rub up against you, dance around you, and, well, that's pretty much it.

This was perhaps the most un-sexy experience of my life. I really can't say that it was just me. I was watching the men watch the girls dance on stage. I was also watching them ignore the girls who were dancing around their tables, swinging their hips.

One of the dancers wearing a short schoolgirl skirt and white spiky high-heeled shoes kept wandering over to one of the tables, shimmying as best as she could in that awkward getup, but the men at the table looked away from her, even if it meant looking at the floor. She dropped her head but kept going. Guess it must be hard to act enthusiastic when the crowd only applauds when Mad Dog barks "c'mon, these ladies work hard! Tip them! Take care of them!" Indeed.

I expected the men to be more excited. I expected them to holler and drool like they do in the movies. I expected the girls to smile. I expected to be grossed out. As it turned out, I was only grossed out. And somewhat bored. Okay, I was a bit embarrassed too, and not just for myself, for being there. I was embarrassed for the guys, the dancers, Mad Dog, and even the DJ (I caught a glimpse of him while he was spinning. He wasn't smiling.).

You'd think that I'd be relieved that guys at the bar weren't rabid over these strippers. Maybe they were all sensitive types. Then again, perhaps the reason they didn't look like they were having fun was because it was just a lame scene all in all. Forced sensuality is so...unappealing.

Even if you are underage, really, you're a hell of a lot better off just hanging out at the mall. Stay home. Learn to whittle figurines out of chopsticks. Anything beats that crap.