In the name of journalism I went to the strip clubs.
I went accompanied by my pal Turtle, a local. At one end of Duval Street we swept aside a curtain and entered a low-ceilinged room with a bar running one length and several bodies deep with men dressed in plaid shorts and tank tops and flip-flops, and women wearing nothing at all except for magnificent high heels.
I followed Turtle to the groin of the building, to a cave of a room with dark walls and the center dominated by a platform jutting like a tongue. On this tongue, like so many piercings, were silvery poles and around these poles swung some lithe females. They were naked, except for regulation eight inch Lucite shoes. Turtle blew kisses to the dancers. They smiled and approached.
“They love me here,” Turtle declared. My guide knew a notable amount for his tender twenty-something years.
The dancers were young, their bodies gorgeous. Pubic hair was meticulous as bonsai gardens. Breasts were everywhere. The sport with breasts is for a patron to place his face between a pair. The girl will then press her breasts, pinning the face into a mammary sandwich. Turtle repeated this process many times. Once with tits so wide the dancer could scarcely make them meet. Another pair of knockers, attached to a damsel with a velvet choker and gold glitter sprinkled on her pale skin, Turtle claimed, “They have to be fake! It was like I was being punched!”
I declined a turn.
The next establishment was up a rickety flight and inside a clammy low-lit cavern. Here nude girls danced on a stage that snaked all throughout the room. In no club did I witness any stripping, unless you count the stepping out of a thong. Mostly male patrons were seated at eye-level to the stage, their heads tilted, focused on the dazzling flesh. One dancer squatted in front of a customer, firm breasts within milking distance. Despite the gunmetal glint in her eyes she was fearsomely feminine. Her customer was porcine and grinning fiendishly. His three buddies sat tight, in an excited huddle. She plucked off the guy’s glasses and brazenly polished them on her clamshell. Next, she wafted the glasses under the guy’s nose. The guy spat up his drink and whooped, his buddies roared. They all tucked paper money into her garter.
My chair was sticky.
A blonde vision swished into view, and Turtle groaned. He nodded at the divinity and she smiled and shimmied over. She crouched down so her pearl farm was in my grille, and said, “Where are you from?”
I blushed when, handing her money, our fingers touched.
She spun away and into Turtle’s sights. Gracefully she fell into a backbend, suggesting the entrance to a tunnel of love.
Turtle stared, entranced.
“My greatest fear,” he said, “is she is going to fart in my face.”
Gold glitter shimmered on his cheeks.