Strip Tease

When I was a teenager, I hung out with strippers. My Uncle managed a strip bar in Lawrence, Indiana, and I got to know some of the women.

But not in a sexual way.

They were working girls who despised the men they danced for. These guys were pathetic. Drunk, slobbering on their neckties, tossing $20s at the girls’ feet, somehow hoping this would open a sexual portal. The strippers happily took the money while showing their disdain through icy smiles.

My friends thought I had it made. That I lived a rock and roll lifestyle while they were trapped in middle class homes. And to a certain degree, that was true. Apart from the occasional toke off a joint, I saw all of this sober. The hardest thing I drank was Kool-Aid (pre-Jonestown). It was right in front of me.

My father came home from work at 6 AM, still rolling, oftentimes accompanied by musicians who were loud and reeking of weed. They made breakfast, laughed, kept the party going until suddenly it went silent. The musicians left, Dad went to bed, and I was left watching TV, the scent of the after-party fading.

The strippers rarely came to parties. Once the club closed, they went back to their domestic lives. Many of them had kids. They were nice to me, and I saw up close what they did to make a living. I had yet to put it all together politically, but that would come. The strippers were workers. The clubs, their factories. Same as always.