Keep Your Shirt On...

I walk into the dimly lit arena of scantily clad women draped in glowing neon debauchery. We make eye contact as they brush their nearly naked bodies against the torsos of men, their eyes glazed over and tired. I am told this is one of Wilmington's finest adult establishments. Judging by the crowd, I can only assume that others must agree. I, unfortunately, do not have any other basis for comparison.

After talking to several people about strip clubs and learning what to expect, I grabbed a couple friends and headed into the blacklights, set for a raucous night of fun. While my friends and I sipped expensive, but thankfully strong, vodka cocktails I settled into my surroundings, focusing first on the numerous men occupying the small tables around us.

The men looked buzzed and comfortable, sitting back in their chairs with expressions of content and disassociation. Even as the women rubbed their bare breasts inches from the men's faces, the men sat with blank expressions and eyes set straight ahead, unmoving in their chairs. I began to wonder what led them here. Which ones had wives and children at home?

In addition to the several tables of lone men, there were a couple groups of young guys, including a bachelor party. After pounding several shots, the groom-to-be was eventually led onto the stage, whereupon he was surrounded by several of the strippers. After getting whipped, grinded and nearly suffocated by a pair of double D's, he stumbled off, red-faced, back into the cheers and claps of his fellow bachelors. One dollar bills were crumpled up and thrown onto the stage and the strippers picked them up with various body parts.

I turned my attention to another group of men. They sat in a small circle watching a stripper tease her way into their wallets. She was rocking her hips back and forth and trying to get out of her small white dress. She couldn't have weighed more than 80 pounds soaking wet, and her harsh make-up glowed under the blacklights. The men were laughing hysterically as she continued to struggle with her dress, getting caught in the straps and nearly falling in her clear platform stilettos. I could feel her embarrassment radiating off of her.

I wanted to talk to them, I wanted to know their stories and why they felt the need to take their clothes off for horny men. I wanted to ask those men why they were there and what they got out of it. It all felt so dirty and demeaning and full of blatant disrespect for women. I can understand the argument that this is for entertainment purposes only and that it's all in fun, but it's still a little disheartening to know that there is a place where women are viewed purely as sexual objects who's sole purpose is male gratification.

I looked around at the other strippers. All of them rough around the edges. Their eyes bloodshot and empty. They portray sex. They wiggle and writhe on the stage and peel their clothes off the beat of "Welcome to the Jungle". Their eyes are void of all emotion as they touch their bodies and climb "seductively" up the pole. With all of this brazen sexuality, I never felt the purpose of it all and it felt akward to watch women objectify themselves so openly. So, after paying my $50 bar tab, I sulked out into the night, with hopes that my baby daddy will support me enough to never have to take my clothes off for money.