L.A. Affairs: My ex took my confidence away. Male strippers brought it back
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A debilitating divorce that netted me half a condo and little self-esteem had landed me here: standing in line waiting for the doors to open to L.A.’s Hollywood Men, the kind of neon-sign male strip club made famous in the “Magic Mike” movies.
I was not alone, having begged my good friend, a stay-at-home mom of two I’ll call Debbie, to please, please, please come with me on this, my 35th birthday.
“Sure, sounds like fun,” she said as if agreeing to a Sunday movie matinee. And so there we were, standing like two prom chaperones in a long line of women all younger and thinner by comparison. Most were wearing something short, black and slinky, while Debbie and I were dressed in business casual or, as I had advised her, “what you’d wear to go to the theater.”
My ex ended things with me and started dating someone new — someone I knew from CrossFit. So why did I feel like I was competing with her?
Ahead of us, an obvious bride-to-be wore a wedding veil decorated with mini condoms. One of her bridesmaids (best guess) carried a water bottle shaped like a penis.
We tried not to stare. I tried not to think about what my ex-husband had told me right before walking out of our marriage: “You like to joke you’re bad in the kitchen but good in the bedroom. The truth is: You’re not good in either of them.”
This was from the man I had loved since high school, the man I had wed after graduation and then had given my virginity to as a dowry. Even after the divorce, I was left with a nagging feeling that he’d been right, that I wasn’t as passionate as I should’ve been. Because the weird thing about love is, even when someone breaks your heart, you still believe them. Blind faith, like a phantom limb, lingers. He thinks me cold, therefore, I am.
“You’re holding up the line,” said the gal behind us, openly disrespecting her elders. We hurried forward, flashed our IDs to an uncaring doorman and made our way down a dark hallway to the main showroom. Black lights illuminated the arena, giving the room a purple glow, aided by flickering votive candles at the center of each table. But it was the cave’s inhabitants that caught our attention.
“Wow,” Debbie whispered.
Wow, indeed. About a dozen tanned, bare-chested men were gliding around the room, holding up their trays and chiseled jawlines with practiced ease.
We claimed a nearby empty table and assumed the “seated virgin” position: backs straight, knees and ankles locked together, hands folded protectively in our laps.
A bow-tied waiter appeared out of nowhere, his dark hair smoothed back to reveal soft brown eyes and an easy, dimpled smile.
“Hi, I’m Randy,” he said. “I’ll be taking care of you this evening.”
I wanted Midwestern prairies, but we moved to his hometown on the West Coast. He wooed me and wanted L.A. to seduce me. Would it really happen?
Ha! “Randy,” I thought, trying to keep a straight face as he took our orders. Suddenly, this all felt so ridiculous. Suddenly, I felt so ridiculous. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
I was about to say just that to Debbie when a blast of music cut me off. Spotlights circled the stage, resting on six male figures lined up, facing stage rear, the word “T-Bird” stamped across their black leather jackets. In one synchronized move, they turned around to face us.
John Travolta sang: “Why this car is automatic. It’s systematic.”
There went the jackets. “It’s hyyy-dromatic.”
And the shirts.
“Why it’s greased lightning.”
And in one miracle-Velcro move, the pants.
All that was left clinging to their hips and my modesty were matching black leather G-strings.
Debbie grabbed her purse and started digging.
“What do you need?” I yelled above the crush of music and screaming women.
“These!” she said and quickly slipped on her eyeglasses.
The show went on, each seductive dance routine bolder than the one before. Soon, I was drunk on Diet Coke, mozzarella sticks and the room’s undeniable energy. Halfway between the classic “You Can Leave Your Hat On” and some seriously sensuous gyrations to Bon Jovi’s “Bed of Roses,” I shed my usual caution and started to have fun. When the dancers leaped off the stage and into the audience for the big finale, Debbie and I eagerly waved one- and five-dollar bills in exchange for a quick hug or peck on the cheek. Soon, our cache of loose bills was depleted.
Debbie reached over to gain my attention. “Hey, isn’t that our waiter?”
I looked through the crush of bodies and falling confetti, and there indeed was Randy, swaying his hips to encourage the women in his section to tuck their tips into the precariously low waistband of his black jeans.
When I saw the flames and smoke of the fires on the screen from thousands of miles away, it felt as though I had lost Eric all over again.
Debbie and I looked at each in horror, realizing we’d just spent all of our ready cash on other men. She started digging in her purse again, but it was too late. Randy had arrived at our table, moving suggestively to the still-pulsating music. Debbie and I rushed to explain. “We’ve got nothing left. … We didn’t know. … We’ll add it to the bill. … You’ve done such a nice job.”
“Not a problem,” he said softly, looking directly at me.
I turned away. What. I’m too old, my nose is too big, I’m not dressed right. I know. Believe me, I know.
Then Randy pulled me up and into his arms. “I understand it’s your birthday,” he said before kissing a path down the exposed curve of my neck. A mixture of shock and pleasure enveloped me, keeping me very, very still. He took my hands in his, granting a chaste kiss on the back of each before turning one over to lightly lick the sensitive center of my palm, then pressing it against his chest, holding it for a beat before slowly guiding its descent. My captive fingertips recorded every velvety inch of him on their downward tour, pausing only when impeded by the low waistband of his jeans. His amused stare dared me to delve deeper.
But no. I pulled my hand back to safety. “That’s OK,” I said. “But thank you. That was wonderful.”
A gracious nod. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure.” Then he was gone.
I dropped back into my chair. “How exciting for you,” Debbie said. “I was hoping he’d do something. I told him it was your birthday.”
Spent, I merely nodded.
My life suddenly changed. My husband had two sudden massive heart attacks and died. At his grave, I said over and over, ‘I just want to be with you.’
The lights came back on, signaling the return to reality. We stayed back, letting the younger and more nimble women head out first. Sitting there, I felt a great relief. Ever since the divorce, I’d been plagued with doubts about my desirability rating. After all, my own husband had lost interest in me. Case closed.
But this night’s adventure had proved him wrong. Oh, I knew the desire in Randy and the other dancers’ eyes was a paid-for illusion, but who cared? I had found passion again, and I welcomed its warm embrace.
I raised my empty glass to Debbie. “To you, my jolly good friend gone wild.”
She laughed and stood up. “Ready?”
To go home? “Yup.”
To find love again? Yes. Ready and able.
The author’s articles and essays have been featured in Orange Coast, the Atlantic, Salon, the Boston Globe Magazine and more. She considers her greatest claim to L.A. fame to be finding love again — not in a strip club but at Hollywood’s Magic Castle, where she met her second husband, Michael. Or as she likes to call him, Magic Michael. Read more of her true stories at her website, barbaranealvarma.com.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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