A Strip Club Named Desire

Under the terrible advice of a coworker I suggested couple’s counseling to my wife. I’m not sure what I was thinking. It didn’t go well. Keeping in mind that we are still in our twenties and recently  married, I can kind of see how she perceived this as shocking. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I recall in my imagination something involving her throwing her arms around me, carrying a “Husband of the Decade” trophy down a parade route, and being on a boat. But this was not the future my coworker warned me about. And in this future, wifey became irrate and we didn’t talk for a day or two.

We were at a quasi-strip club in Hollywood called Cheetah’s. It was a friend’s birthday, and I want to make this very clear, it was a female friend. I was drinking Sam Adams from the bottle while a woman named Gidget or Bunny or Lola was swinging around on a pole. My wife grabbed my arm and said, “Can we go? I don’t feel comfortable here.” To which I responded, “Are you fucking kidding me? We just got here.”

This all sounds worse than it probably was. The first point to consider is that this friend is  friend of both of ours. This was not some ooh-la-la with the intent of getting drunk and ogling strippers. It may have been that after about twenty minutes, but that was not the intent. Secondly, it was not a real strip club in the traditional sense of the word. “Stripping” or “disrobing” was not taking place at this particular establishment. It was more of a burlesque show, the women were clothed in bikinis. And third, we had driven 90 minutes in traffic to get there. She asked to leave after 45.

The ensuing fight on the drive home was one for the record books. And I stand by my argument. That if yon strippers had not removed their garments their gyrations on greasy stripper poles amounted to nothing more than gymnastics. “It’s like the french circus” I argued. She responded by asking in what circus do the clowns smash their breasts into the children’s faces and shake them around.

She asked why I have such a short temper. “Why do you get so angry?” She said. But I couldn’t respond. I was too busy thinking about clowns with giant breasts.

And so Monday morning when I tried explaining this all to a coworker she said “I think you guys need counseling. Both of you.” And it seemed like a really good idea.

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