His Age: 53
His City: San Francisco
Setting: San Francisco – A progressive date starting with dinner at Izzy’s Steakhouse
Let’s start with the disclaimer, shall we? I recommend that if you’re my mother, my
Mormon paternal grandparents or the like, you may want to skip this
vignette. For those of you who prefer
your reading to stay safely in PG-13 territory, you may also want to skip. This is at least an R rating. Buckle up.
Date #98 contacted me a few weeks earlier, but days before
we were to meet, I was bitten in the face by a dog. The bite required eight stitches right below
my right eye. I wasn’t up for seeing
anyone new.
He wanted to meet before the stitches came out, which made
me love him just a little bit, but I had to say, “No way!” I was willing to let him see a really
cool-looking scar, but not eight black whiskers woven between clumps of blood
with scabs poking out of my face.
One of the things that attracted me to him was his life’s
work. He owns a prestigious law firm in
San Francisco, and he’s one of the good guys, representing a cause dear to my
heart – the type of man I could get behind and support well. But at date #98, the skeptic in me didn’t
bother to get too overly excited until we actually met face-to-healing-face.
On the date, I discovered he was intelligent, interesting,
not particularly funny, and not at all my type, but I wanted to give him a
chance.
Over the three hours of dinner conversation, the top two hot
topics that he repeated were his ex-wife and his ex-girlfriend. From what I gathered, there was quite a bit
of overlap.
By the conclusion of dinner, I’d learned what his favorite
body parts of mine were (and neither of them happened to be my brain). “I want to date you…” he said, “but I have a
feeling you’re a real prude.” Huh. Cue to watch the date go sideways. I was strangely insulted. I was flooded with rhetorical questions I
never asked him, but I will ask you.
#1. What is prude-like about a short black skirt, knee-high
boots with six-inch heels, and a cleavage top?
#2. Why does it make me a prude if I won’t act sexual on a
first date?
#3. Why was my “prudishness” pushed on me like a character
flaw?
This date was officially over. I thanked him for the meal and said, “This
prude has to go dance at a club now.”
“Where?”
“Never you mind.” I said.
“Can I come watch?” he asked.
“Only if we take separate cars. You can come, I guess. The club doesn’t open for another hour and a
half.”
“We could go get a drink,” he said.
“Fine, but only if we can go to Aunt Charlie’s,” I replied.
Aunt Charlie’s is this magnificent hole-in-the-wall,
teeny-tiny dive bar catering to the LGBT crowd and featuring drag queen revues
on weekends. It’s awesome.
I arrived after my date and saw he was sitting at the far
end of the bar. Between us was a group
of eight to ten gay men in their late 20s and early 30s. I pushed my way past the boys and joined Date
#98 for a quick beer while we waited.
The berating of my character due to the prude flaw
continued. He pulled at my blouse to
show me how I should wear it, if I wasn’t so prudish – and as he tugged, the
top of the center of my blouse fell well below my bra. Finally, I’d had it with this guy. I turned around to my crowd of boys
(decorative bra showing and all) and announced, “It’s time for a poll. How many of you” – I raised my hand high in
the air – “think I’m a prude?”
Cutie-pie boy #1 in his queenliest voice said, “Honey. In those boots? You… are… NOT… a prude!”
The others quickly followed suit, commenting on my bra, my
skirt, being inside Aunt Charlie’s in the middle of the Tenderloin, one of San
Francisco’s seediest neighborhoods. Yes,
it was well documented; the votes were cast, and the committee had ruled that I
was NOT a prude. And on that, I said,
“Thank you, my friends. Now, this prude
has to excuse herself. She’s got to go
dance on a pole at the Power Exchange.”
Something to know about me: for recreation and elation, I
dance on a pole. I’m a pole dancer. I’m amazing at it. I can climb, flip, spin and more. I’m better than most of the “professionals.”
I’ll explain the Power Exchange, since I’m assuming most of
you aren’t making the scene. You might
guess it’s a bar. It’s not. Strip club?
Na ah; that would be too classy.
Give up?
The Power Exchange is San Francisco’s sex club. Yep, that’s right – it’s a sex club. It’s open Thursday through Sunday, 9 p.m. to
5 a.m. I and other women (including
transgendered women) get in for free; men pay big bucks. It’s not fair, I know. Sorry.
I don’t own the club; I just dance there.
The living-room area of this club just so happens to be home
to San Francisco’s best pole available to the public. It’s in the center of the room at the end of
a long professional runway stage that’s under-lit. At the back part of the stage there’s a
second pole for practice.
I like to go dance there on the occasional Thursday or
Sunday, and I always go right at 9 p.m., when no one’s there. In other words, I go in during the off-hours
when no one is around but staff – who are fantastic, btw. They’re similar to bartenders and bouncers,
and you just know they’ve seen every single thing. They’re jaded, friendly, and they like me because
I’m friendly with them.
The pole is located in what I would call the living
room. Remember keg parties in
college? Kids may have been kissing in
the living room at a keg party, but the real action always happened in the back
bedrooms (or so we see in John Hughes films).
Well… it’s like that in this club.
Center stage is me on a pole (if not dancing, I’m giving some other
woman a pole lesson), and what else we’ve got going on there is usually some
sort of deal-making session or transaction.
In other words, the living room is mostly talk, not a lot of
action. One might see a man trying to
talk two girls into a threesome, or a group trying to coordinate potential
play. I don’t listen in – it’s not my
business. I focus on the pole.
This night I walked in, greeted my friends behind the
counter, and headed into the living room toward the stage with the man formerly
known as my “date” trailing behind me.
Two women in their mid-20s – hipster/vintage/goth girls –
leapt up and squealed when they saw me.
“Our favorite pole dancer. Yay!”
I gave them each a big hug, and I hauled one of the girlies
on stage with me. We worked out some
easy spinning tricks to get warmed up.
She was extra large and thus shy about using her full body weight on the
pole, and so I worked with her for a while.
I taught; we spun; I danced. My
life was perfect.
About 30 minutes into dancing, I found myself about 15 feet
up in the air, inadvertently looking eye-level at someone in the second-story
seating gallery. When I realized he’d
caught my eye, I quickly looked
away. I actually make it a point not to
look at men in the club because I don’t want to accidentally start something I
have zero intention of finishing with them.
It’s just protocol.
So while I was dangling 15 feet in the air – upside down,
mind you – I diverted my eyes to somewhere safe. Normally, that would be down at the empty
stage below me. This time I chose to
look over to my group of girls and ex-date.
The women were gone; it was only my ex-date… naked…
completely naked… even his shoes and socks were off, naked… looking up at me…
and masturbating. Nice.
All I could think was, dude.
It’s the living room. I know it’s
allowed and all, but it’s not cool. Put
your shoes on – that’s unsanitary – and put that thing away or take it to the
back room. (Further proving his point –
I’m a prude.)
I lingered in the air as long as possible but eventually
popped down off the pole, at which time I gathered my bag off the stage and
proceed to leave.
“Wait!” he called out, erection in hand.
“Um, no. You should
stay. Have a nice time,” I said without
making eye contact – protocol.
“Wait, you can come over here and talk to me while I
finish,” he remarked.
“Nope, I didn’t sign up for this. I’m out.
Have a nice night,” I said directly, but in a monotone.
Second date? What do you think?
