XXX (Part 1, of course)
Two nights ago I gathered up a handful of the latest Avon brochures, fifty of the new Avon Men's Catalogues, a bag of men's Ab Cream samples, and my demo bottle of the brand new Today fragrance and drove down to San Diego, to the fanciest strip club in the county. At least I thought it must be the fanciest because it had the biggest ads in the alternative paper with headlines that read "Sexiest Girls!" and "Voted Best Gentlemen's Club!" I ripped the ad out of the paper before I left home and stood stark naked for a long time in front of my paltry closet, wondering what one wears to a strip club. Jeans? A dress? Nah, something artsy. I settled on my utilikilt and baby blue knee socks and a long sleeve black form-fitting t-shirt and the gray leather cowboy boots my parents gave me on my last birthday. I stuck two pink barrettes in my hair, the kind that have rhinestone sparkles, and added a silver marcasite Avon watch, earrings, ring, and necklace set. I thought I looked hot for a mom, but my teenaged son laughed and rolled his eyes.
"Geeze, mom, Halloween was two weeks ago."
Maybe he's right, I thought as I drove down the freeway, past the auto mall road with endless dealerships, past the exit to Sea World. I removed the barrettes and necklace and set them on the passenger seat next to the newspaper ad. Never a cover charge for ladies! Prime rib dinners! I imagined the club, imagined thick brass dancing poles and a black marble stage and small round tables full of men in elegant business suits smoking cigars, drinking, watching tall lithe women with tassels and long straight hair wiggle and dip to rhythm and blues. I would ask one of the dancing girls if I could follow her back stage and give her a spritz of Today. I would walk through the smoky haze of the club and leave a Men's Catalogue on each table with a handful of Ab Cream samples. I would flirt and giggle and use my bedroom voice and whip my red order pad out of my front kilt pocket when a man looked willing. I would leave a stack of books with the club host along with a thank you bottle of Wild Country cologne. I turned east on the freeway that runs past Old Town and continued picturing my perfect strip club evening, and by the time I pulled my old minivan into the parking lot, I was counting hundreds of dollars in imaginery Men's Catalogue commissions.
I stuffed the samples in my back kilt pocket and grabbed my purse. I brought the Avon denim shoulder bag, the one with the applique flowers and patches, the one that could hold seventy-five brochures without complaining, and slung it across my left shoulder. I stuck the bottle of Today in my side pocket, adding three inches to my hips. I locked the van door and headed toward the door only to see a line of women at least twenty-five bodies long waiting for admission.
"Excuse me, ma'am?" I tapped the woman at the end of the line on her right shoulder. "What's going on tonight? Why are so many women in line? Where's all the men?"
She turned around to look at me, but her eyes were drawn to my bag and then my hips. She wore a smart red t-shirt and tight low rise jeans, high-heeled pointy boots on her feet. She carried a gift-wrapped box tied with a golden ribbon in one hand, a chic velvet clutch in the other.
"It's ladies night. You know? The male strippers?" She turned back around to chat with four other women carrying presents, and I followed them into the club.
To be continued....
7:52:14 PM 
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