Stripped

I brushed past the outstretched hands holding flyers plastered with pictures of scantily-clad women as I made my way down the strip. Maybe my least favorite thing about Las Vegas was the constant bombardment with escort service flyers in a town where prostitution was supposedly illegal. I’d heard the stories of guys spending $400 for a bottle of Andre sparkling wine and a woman to drink it with in a “special” back room, only to discover that that is exactly what they got. No sexual favors, “Keep your hands off of her buddy; prostitution in illegal in Las Vegas. Drink your wine and then get out.”

I didn’t need the aggravation, though the strip clubs did call and I had a pocket full of ones and twenties, which I knew would be gone by the end of the evening, last known whereabouts, the panties of one stripper or another. We men are puppets to our hormones and hard wiring. Really, it isn’t even a fair battle; most of us don’t stand a chance. We are so easy, so susceptible to the lies that fall from the mouths of strippers as they move in close to talk, their intoxicating aromas filling our heads, their cleavage delighting our eyes.

There is an indignity to it, being manipulated and controlled so easily. I know guys who refuse to go into strip clubs, hell, refuse to even go to a Hooters because they don’t want to give over control to women in that way, and they know they are slaves to their body’s wiring. These friends are probably right; the only way to resist is to not put yourself in the position. Like the end of that movie War Games, “The only way to win, is not to play.” Yeah, that about nails it.

I walk into the strip club and a beautiful young thing takes my arm and shows me to a seat next to the stage. Yeah, so much for winning.

Copyright 2014 Barry Keller. All rights reserved.