A weakening divorce that scored half a condominium and little self -esteem had taken me here: being in line waiting for the doors to open to the men of Hollywood of Los Angeles, the type of male neon strip club became famous in the ” Mike Magic “Cine.
I was not alone, after having begged my good friend, a mother of two children who stays at home. I will call Debbie, so that please, please come with me in this, my 35th birthday.
“Of course, it sounds fun,” he said as if they agreed with a Sunday movie movie. And there we were, standing like two graduation chaperones in a long line of women, all younger and more thin compared. Most had something short, black and sneaky, while Debbie and I were dressed in casual businesses or, as he had advised, “what you would use to go to the theater.”
Before us, an obvious future girlfriend wore a wedding veil decorated with mini condoms. One of his honor ladies (the best assumption) carried a bottle of penis -shaped water.
We try not to look. I tried not to think about what my ex -husband had told me just before leaving our marriage: “You like to joke, you are bad in the kitchen but well in the bedroom. The truth is: you are not good in any of them. ”
This was the man who had loved from high school, the man who had married me after graduating and then had given me my virginity as a dowry. Even after divorce, I stayed with a persistent feeling that I had been right, that I did not passion as I should have been. Because I miss love, even when someone breaks your heart, you still believe them. Blind faith, like a ghost limb, persists. He thinks of cold, therefore, I am.
“You are holding the line,” said the girl behind us, without openly respect to her elders. We hurry forward, show our ID to an indifferent goalkeeper and go through a dark hall to the main exhibition room. The black lights illuminated the sand, giving the room a purple shine, helped by flashing votive candles in the center of each table. But they were the inhabitants of the cave that caught our attention.
“Wow,” Debbie whispered.
Wow, in fact. Around a dozen tanned men and with the bare bordist slipped around the room, holding their chiseled trays and jawlines with ease practiced.
We claim a nearby empty table and assume the position of “Virgen sitting”: straight backs, knees and blocked ankles, with bent hands protectively on our laps.
A waiter tied with the arch appeared out of nowhere, his dark hair smoothed to reveal soft brown eyes and an easy smile with dimples.
“Hello, I'm Randy,” he said. “I'll take care of you tonight.”
Ha! “Randy,” I thought, trying to maintain a serious face while taking our orders. Suddenly, all this felt so ridiculous. Suddenly, I felt so ridiculous. Maybe this was not a great idea.
I was about to say that to Debbie when an explosion of music interrupted me. The spotlights surrounded the stage, resting in six male figures aligned, looking back, the word “T-Bird” stamped on their black leather jackets. In a synchronized movement, they turned around to face us.
John Travolta sang: “Why this car is automatic. It is systematic. ”
There were the jackets. “It's Hyyy-Dromatic.”
And the shirts.
“Why is a greased ray.”
And in a miraculous fast movement, pants.
Everything that was clinging to his hips and my modesty coincided with the black leather strings.
Debbie grabbed her bag and started digging.
“What do you need?” I shouted about the falling of music and women shouting.
“These!” He said and quickly slid over his glasses.
The show continued, every boldly seductive dance routine than the previous one. Soon, I was drunk with Coca -Cola Light, Mozzarella and the undeniable energy of the room. Halfway between the classic “You can leave your hat” and some very sensual turns to the “Bed of Roses” by Bon Jovi, I threw my usual caution and began to have fun. When the dancers jumped from the stage and became the audience for the grand final, Debbie and I anxiously greet one and five dollars in exchange for a fast hug or a cheek punch. Soon, our loose bill cache was exhausted.
Debbie approached to get my attention. “Hey, isn't that our waiter?”
I looked through the crush of the bodies and the fall of confetti, and in fact it was Randy, swinging their hips to encourage women in their section to put their tips at the precariously low waist of their black jeans.
Debbie and I looked at each one with horror, realizing that we just spent all our cash ready in other men. She began to dig in her bag again, but it was too late. Randy had arrived at our table, suggestively moving to the still polish music. Debbie and I rushed to explain. “We have nothing left. … We didn't know. … we will add it to the invoice. … You have done a good job. ”
“It's not a problem,” he said gently, looking directly.
I turned. That. I am too old, my nose is too big, I'm not dressed. I know. Believe me, I know.
Then Randy put me up and to his arms. “I understand that it is your birthday,” he said before kissing a path through the exposed curve of my neck. A mixture of shock and pleasure wrapped me, keeping me very, very still. He took my hands on his own, giving a Casto kiss on the back of each one before turning one to slightly lick the sensitive center of my palm, then pressing it against his chest, holding it for a rhythm before slowly guiding his descent. My captive fingers recorded every velvety inch on his tour, stopping alone when they prevent him from the low jets. His fun gaze dared to deepen.
But not. I threw my hand back to a safe place. “Okay,” I said. “But thanks. That was wonderful.”
A friendly assent. “Ladies, it has been a pleasure.” Then he left.
I fell back into my chair. “How exciting for you,” said Debbie. “I hoped he did something. I told him it was your birthday. ”
I spent, I just nodded.
The lights came back on, pointing out the return to reality. We are left behind, letting the youngest and agile women come out first. Sitting there, I felt a great relief. From divorce, I had been plagued with doubts about my convenience qualification. After all, my own husband had lost interest in me. Closed case.
But tonight's adventure had shown that he was wrong. Oh, I knew that the desire in Randy and the eyes of the other dancers was a paid illusion, but who cared? I had found passion again, and I appreciated his warm hug.
I raised my empty glass to Debbie. “For you, my very good friend went crazy.”
She laughed and stood up. “Ready?”
To go home? “Yeah.”
Find love again? Yes. Ready and capable.
The author's articles and essays have appeared in Orange Coast, The Atlantic, Salon, Boston Globe Magazine and more. She considers that her greatest claim of fame is finding love again, not in a Striptease club but in the Magic Castle of Hollywood, where she met her second husband, Michael. Or as he likes to call him, Magic Michael. Read more of your real stories on your website, Barbaranealvarma.com.
Los Angeles Affairs Chronices The search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to listen to their real history. We pay $ 400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find presentation guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
