Well, however you cut the numbers, Portland is home to more strip clubs per capita than Sin City. And the fact we’re in The Beaver State just makes it all the more giggle-worthy. Vegan strip clubs. 24 hour strip clubs. Need a steak house with a strip club? Check. You want tattooed ladies? Ladies with full-on growlers? Pierced? Depressed? Lactating? Portland has got you covered.
And I happen to be dating a strip-club aficionado.
I take no real issue with strip clubs. I’ve been myself plenty of times, with friends, with my boyfriend – maybe because I have my own, personal cooch and titties it’s not a big deal for me to see others. Maybe because I’m a catty bitch and I’m judging the “dancers” I’ll never understand why men find this particular setting worth visiting. Men, as we know, are far less judgmental of nude women than other women.
Now, I say I judge the entertainment – of course I do. But far, far less harshly than I judge myself. After all, I realize full well if I were to try to make a living that way…well. I’d be starving, and working the breakfast shift in a real shit hole. I, after all, a sorta pudgy, top-heavy, awkward woman look better with my clothes on. So let’s just say it’s a good thing I have a career that doesn’t involve nudity (though I’m still toying with selling used undies to pervs).
But here’s where it gets…tough. The Boy and his BFF are particular fans of a specific club – and I’ve pretty much been banned from that club with them. That’s their boys’ night out locale. That being said, they haven’t been the whole time we’ve been dating – it’s almost like Shangri-La, like it doesn’t exist except in conversation – and we’ve all gone to other clubs together. But this one club is the one that gets mentioned, and I pout because I know they’ll just send me home if they want to go.
So last night it happened. The Boy and I were at the bowling alley. We’ve developed a reputation of being a modern Statler and Waldorf.
Me and The Boy – as puppets
We work like a well-oiled comedy duo. We tell stories in tandem to great effect. We set each other up. We take great cues. We can steamroll any conversation we join and turn it into a routine. We just happen to have virtually identical senses of humor, combined with the same warped thought process, sprinkled with obscure, filthy references. When we’re on, it’s stunning to watch.
A mutual friend was bombarded last week with a 15 minute routine on my gay pugs. (Yes, my pugs are gay, not because they’re pugs, but because they’re actually homosexual and that’s a story for another day – and I’ll post the video, too.) Last night he saw us heading outside so The Boy could smoke (blech. Filthy habit. I cannot WAIT till he quits but I don’t want to nag and make him smoke more out of spite, so I tolerate it, and insist he gives me pre-stinky kisses before he lights up.) and he jumped up to join us outside for some entertainment.
What happened instead? He asked us for advice. He’s planning a bachelor party for Saturday night. Starting with a round of golf, and then…? That’s where we came in. Within moments we had upped the party to mandating that all in attendance wear sweatpants, without underwear. We’d thrown in dancing at a gay bar. We were on a roll, and then the friend said, “And he has permission to get a happy ending.” The Boy lit up and said, “Oh! Then you want to go to Club-Yadda-Yadda.” (Name changed because I’m not throwing them publicity.)
And it hit me. That’s it. That’s the men’s only club. That’s THE BOYS’ NIGHT OUT club. The one that I’m forbidden from going to. And that’s why. Handies. Happy endings. Whatever.
Now, watching twat grinding in your face, whatever. I don’t quite get the appeal, but again, I have my own. Boobs? Everyone loves boobs. Even if most of the strippers I’ve seen around here are too saggy for my tastes. It’s tough to find a good, quality, un-augmented breast. But paying one of those strippers to get off? Totally, completely, utterly, freaks me out and crosses a line. A big line.
The look of terror must have been obvious (with the asperger’s I’m rarely aware what the look on my face is) – because The Boy put his arm around me reassuringly and was like, “Ohmygod! Look at the panic on your face! Ohhh!” And I said, “It’s because I’ve just realized why I am not allowed to go to that club with you. It’s where you get off with skanks.” And I commend myself for not bursting into tears at that moment.
I have lines in a relationship. And getting off with the assistance of a whore crosses one. The biggest, even. Cheating – of any sort – is such a deliberate act. And no, drinking never excuses shitty behavior. Ever.
Now, The Boy and I have been very clear, open, and honest with each other. I think we have a pretty firm grasp on each other, our histories, our limits. And he has told me he’s never gone that far. And I believe him – if he had, he frankly would have told me, complete with whatever gruesome, likely hilarious, tale led up to it or followed it.
But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t totally, completely horrified that the conversation ended with The Boy being invited to this particular soiree.
It’s going to happen. There’s going to be raunchy boys’ nights out. There’s going to be bachelor parties. I’m not so totally out of touch as a human I’d even attempt to put my foot down and declare a moratorium on any such events. But it doesn’t mean I don’t understand the appeal, and it certainly doesn’t make me feel a single bit better about myself.
I try so hard to not be as hideous as I feel. I hate the circles under my eyes – so I wear make up. I hate my stomach – so I don’t wear tight shirts. I hide behind my big glasses that make me feel like a superhero instead of an average girl. I tweeze stray eyebrow hairs. I whiten my teeth. I try, at all times, to hide every offensive thing about myself without just giving up and hiding under a large paper bag. I play up the few assets I have, and hope no one realizes the myriad flaws. I am positive every woman I know does this. Even one of the most incredibly beautiful girlfriends I’ve ever had gets Botox, and has had other (secret) work done, as in actual plastic surgery shit. (Thank god my Portland girlfriends are a lot more relaxed about these things.)
I don’t just try to “hide the ugly” I hope like hell I can keep the attention of The Boy. Now. Comparisons aren’t fair. And he has compared me to an ex of his once or twice, not in a malicious, intentional way, but in a way that left me feeling completely inadequate and made me cry. But I still feel like if I had been better somehow that my husband wouldn’t have needed to turn to other women. And that’s a fear I just can’t shake. And I can’t hold the sins of an ex against The Boy, I can’t make that comparison. It’s not fair, it’s not warranted, it’s not nice… but. I look in a mirror…and I see so much wrong, it’s really a miracle I can leave the house some days. It’s half the reason I was so terrified to start dating again – letting someone get close enough to see all my flaws. Knowing that eventually someone was going to see me without make up, without clothes. It’s horrifying. And I can’t help but feel one of these days he’s going to catch on, realize all my problems, and…stray.
And I have been working very, very hard with my own insecurities, trying to beat that fear down. The man has done nothing wrong. Not once in the nearly 7 months we’ve been dating. Nothing. I’m simply damaged goods and insecure. And it’s getting better- the longer we’re together, the more secure we become, the less this fear bugs me. Usually I can ignore it entirely. Once in a while it pops up, I acknowledge it, I tell myself how ridiculous it is because things are fine and things are even good. But hearing about this bachelor party totally freaked me out and brought the fears up-close and right on my mind.
I cried myself to sleep last night. Finally. About 3 am. After tossing, turning, crying, trying to talk myself off the ledge, crying some more, feeling stupid, rationalizing every reason I didn’t have to be worried, considered vomiting, cried some more. It was not a good night.
And why? Because he’s going to be out this weekend with some guys? Who cares, right? Who cares about him looking at other women? All guys do. It’s not a big deal – he loves me (for reasons I can’t guess, as I’m clearly fucking crazy). He might even find me attractive. But the thought that he might cross a line at that fucking club just makes me cry all over again. The fact that for whatever reason he’s going to be out, paying women who are far more attractive than I am, to entertain him…it just sucks. The fact that he’s going to be out, with women grinding on him, and then he has to come home to me is horrifying. Me. With the idiot dogs curled up in bed. Probably snuffly from my allergies. No make up. Pudgy. Insecure. I wouldn’t want to come home to me, either.
And that really, really sucks.
So today…I woke up feeling shitty about all of this. Knowing it would pass, eventually. Knowing I am being irrational, as usual. Knowing it’s just another round of self-loathing (it comes in waves). And a friend had posted this video on facebook:
And we can discuss all day how the company that owns Dove sells beauty products designed to make us recognize our flaws. We can talk about how we’re all obsessed with our appearance instead of our character. (Hey, I’m overly critical of both!)
But I needed this reminder that we all hate ourselves in some way, hell – in multiple ways. And that everyone else sees something else entirely.
And then The Boy texted me and asked me out to lunch. He drove into the city today to hit food carts with me, and sit in the sun for an hour. He couldn’t have possibly known just how much I needed him to show me he liked me. But I am so incredibly glad he did.
