The Quarterly Grain Report

An Evening of High Society

Once again topping Redbook's annual list of "Most Recognizable Scents in Society" is that of the strip club. (Coming in close behind were apricots, and burning hair/skin.) Now, this should come as no surprise to those who have occasionally visited the theaters of carnal delight, but for those who haven't, just imagine the olfactory overload of the perfume section of any JC Penney's, and now throw a few venereal diseases in for good measure. There. Authentic strip joint flavor. You can almost taste it. Make you want to wash your hair and clothing a few dozen times? You're not alone.

Seeking to alleviate the boredom of one particular Saturday evening, a few fellows and myself decided to make our way to the only strip club within forty miles. We had downed a few beverages beforehand, which certainly loosened everyone up, and also served to give me the drunken nerve that I needed to enter such a place.

We drove through the night, the anticipation building within the vehicle as we drew nearer. It was almost palpable. Questions abounded: "Would any of the chicks be good-looking?" "Should we pick up Tony?" "I don't know his number." "Fuck."

But finally, there appeared over the horizon the glowing neon symbol of awkward semi-sexual experiences that were kinda better than the internet, but you had to pay for them. Hot Rods. A name that could just as easily have been given to a different kind of dance club, where all the staff are dressed as various village people with names like, well, Rod, but nonetheless, we took that chance.

I didn't know what to expect upon first walking through the doorway. Billowing smoke? An unexpected high school teacher? Truck-stop looking quasi-females? But when we walked into the main room, all we saw were a couple of Golden Tee machines and one hell of a juice bar. Since its liquor license had recently been revoked, Hot Rods had replaced its hard liquor collection with Hi-C and Snapple. But nobody gave the juice bar a second thought. The four of us had not driven to this sex oasis to enhance our diets with antioxidant-rich fruit juices, although preventing the early effects of scurvy would have been a good idea. We had driven there for real live tits. The man guarding the entrance to what seemed to be a subwoofer and laser convention sat atop a high stool and did not ask for any IDs. His only words were "Ten dollars." I paid stool-man with a twenty, and he asked if I wanted my change in ones. I didn't really know why anyone would want their change in one-dollar bills, but I figured that stool-man must've been out of fives and tens. (It didn't register at the time that in order to get in, many other patrons would have paid with Hamiltons. I was just focused on completing a smooth transaction and gaining entrance.) After shoving ten of what had to be the filthiest dollar bills still in circulation into my wallet, I scrambled inside to catch up with the fellas.

We sat down at a table near the back, to scope things out and get the lay of the land. Four college-aged kids, a few couples, and the grizzled veterans were all in front of us. A middle-aged guy who sat on one end of the stage was clearly the experienced, nightly customer who knew all the gals by their immunization histories. Let's call him Randy. Randy wore dark-rimmed glasses, and was certainly not dressed for a job interview in his Star Wars, Hawaiian-type shirt and light khaki shorts. He was slightly chubby, and possessed an odd gleam in his eye when he gazed up at the girls. Maybe a proud paternalistic gleam if you're into Freud, but more likely, a three-weeks-since-failed-suicide-attempt gleam.

When we all had gotten settled, the girl who was first on stage looked like she had more testosterone coursing through her veins than I did, and probably could have kicked any one of our asses. Her gig was threatening money out of all the saps in the front row who had forgotten the order of dancers and not backed away when she emerged from behind the curtain. I felt much more comfortable when she was done and had no chance to glare in my general direction.

The freak show continued into the wee hours of the night, and the cycle of teenage mothers started over again. But this time, to different songs whose choruses were never meant to be sexual, but now somehow were.

Arriving home, I reeked of Tropicana and hookers. My clothes flopped into a pile near the foot of the bed to be aired out later, and I proceeded to wipe out all that was left of the Pert Plus over the course of a forty-minute shower. Having now checked off one of the top three most recognizable scents, we all met the following weekend with our apricots and soldering irons. Thank you, Redbook!

posted by Arthur Croft Yates @ 9:13 PM