By Tandy Versyp
I had no homework. My bank account was unusually high on funds. The line into Star Castle was across the parking lot, and the only place I had never been was a strip club. So I went.
That’s when I fell in love. Not with a stripper, but with stripping. Before the strippers sat at the edge of the stage shaking their moneymakers, they grabbed the golden pole and swung; they caressed and adored every inch of their own bodies: faces, necks, thighs, and breasts. The girls were ferociously confident with themselves, a presence that demanded respect and adoration. They were completely exposed and loving it.
I want that.
When I shower and my roommate’s cat sneaks into the bathroom to catch a glimpse of my naked body, I feel violated. I am constantly tense and don’t like being touched, even by my loved ones and lovers. Stuck in preteen notions of intimacy, I try to exact revenge or extract a date with my sexuality, and it’s an embarrassment.
It isn’t just my frigid sexual notions. Walking into a room, I feel all eyes on me: staring, judging and threatening. I don’t have that pull just behind the navel that confident people do. That gut feeling that they are special, important and at ease with themselves. Stripping would force me to feel out my mojo, find that inner mix of Kwai Chang Caine and Marilyn Monroe: sexiness that feels whole, not cheap.
I understand stripping is not a widely-endorsed vocation. The lack of a pension plan is off-putting. Strippers are not paradigms of virtue; and the sex industry is quite scary. Although those are reasons for the moral majority to condemn me for stripper worship, I don’t care. I want that fearlessness. If I can flash my family jewels to a crowded room of strangers, I won’t be scared to take career risks. If I can hold my own against blatantly objectifying stares, I can talk to that cutie at the end of the line at The Piggly Wiggly.
I seriously thought about stripping, until I logged onto the Web site of Swinging Richard’s: an all-nude male strip club in Atlanta. It was the only male strip club I could find in a 500-mile radius. The Web site contains profiles of the dancers, complete with bio lines—“I’m an Italian/Puerto Rican and playful boy, especially after a few, you would enjoy!” The dancers were all beefy and willing to show their “right stuff” in the pictures on the site. I realized I needed to work up my nerve — for the next 10 years — before debuting to a paying audience.
But I have been practicing.
When my roommates aren’t home and I get the gumption, I put on my Robin outfit from Halloween and strip in front of the hallway mirror to Jay-Z’s “I Just Wanna Love U (Give It 2 Me).” I may not strip soon, but my awkwardness will be gone by Christmas.
