Strip Teaze

The other night we took my folks to see the Ivan Kane 40 Deuces Burlesque show at a local theater for my dad's birthday. Yes, my parents are that hip, even at 82. However, contrary to what we had anticipated, this was not your typical Vegas burlesque, pasties aside. It had an urban, gritty biker bar ambiance with little or no true choreography, but abundant shimmies and pelvic thrusts. These girls were limber, I'll give them that. What they lacked in synchronicity they made up for in pole-worthy flexibility. It was as if the producer rounded up the best strippers in Southern California, gave them several costume changes, some duct tape to cover up their titties, a few traditional dance moves and then let them loose on stage to gyrate as the mood called for to an onslaught of rock and heavy metal. From Welcome to the Jungle to Back in Black. It was a true homage to sex, drugs and rock n' roll, minus the drugs. Well, at least in our case.
After the show, we went to dinner and picked the show apart. My mother was disappointed in the lack of sophistication. I tried to explain that Axle Rose in a tux was never going to happen. My dad thought the girls danced well, but felt that the repetitious thump-thump-thump of the heavy metal beat was merciless and took away from his being able to enjoy the gyrations and hair tossing. My mom joked that I could’ve done just as a good a job up there, just throwing my ‘stuff’’ around the stage.
It was then that I decided to tell them the story about my tempting career change—a tale I never thought I would divulge to my aging parents. They had enough to deal with in terms of their youngest daughter—adding stripper to the list might just push them over the edge. But divulge I did.
It happened about 15 years ago. I had just moved back to Palm Springs. I was in my early 30s, in my prime. My body was toned and supple and I knew it. A male colleague was leaving the company I was working for and we took him out for farewell drinks at a bar downtown. Several tequila shots later, he decided he wanted to move the party down valley to Showgirls, a fairly sophisticated strip club, as strip clubs go. Quite tipsy myself, I agreed to go along with about half of the crew; the others declined. Wimps.
Once in the club, the drinks continued to flow. And flow. And flow. By now I had moved beyond tipsy to downright drunk. Bob, our fleeing coworker, wanted a lap dance. We tried to get the attention of one of the dancers on stage, but were unsuccessful. I guess waving a crumpled dollar bill over his head just didn’t provide adequate motivation. I chose to take matters into my own hands—or rather hips—and proceeded to give Bob his very own lap dance, courtesy of moi.
Now, I know there’s a lot of things I can’t do that I wish I could: I wish I could sing, for example, but I just can’t. I suck at singing. I can, however, dance pretty well. And under the influence of much alcohol, I was damn Gypsy Rose Lee.
Just as I was really getting into it, my body snaking around Bob like a cobra stalking its prey, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find the manager of the club (at least that’s what his name tag stated) who informed me that I needed to stop my one-woman show immediately or I would be asked to leave. I inquired as to the harm of my giving my friend some personalized entertainment and was told that it was “distracting and that I was getting more attention than the girls on stage, who were getting annoyed.” He then asked if I would consider coming back next Monday to audition.
True story, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about it for a split second. Lord knows I would’ve been bringing home more green than I was at the time—or probably even now, for that matter.