When Charlie thrust her bare breasts into my face as she pouted that I kept looking away, two very clear thoughts popped into my head.
One, I’d never been more sure of my heterosexuality, and two, this was a birthday I wouldn’t soon forget.
Not 15 minutes before, the petite, shapely young woman named Charlie had stepped on stage, sporting nearly nonexistent unmentionables that soon became a tiny pile on the ground when she paraded her way toward the group of 13 people who somehow found themselves at Jilly’s on a Sunday night in mid-May.
Through the flashing coloured lights reflecting off the mirrors upstage and the pounding dance beats, the DJ’s voice boomed through the speakers, “And we hear it’s Emily’s birthday today, so happy birthday to Emily!” Everyone but me cheered wildly and I sank just a little bit lower in my seat.
I never thought I’d want to spend my birthday this way, surrounded by minimally clothed and eventually naked women. I succumbed not so much to peer pressure from Leslie — whose idea it was to go to Jilly’s in the first place — but admittedly by an undeniable morbid curiosity about strip clubs.
Of course, with the DJ singling me out and Charlie shimmying her way near our tables and calling out seductively, “Which one of you is Emily?” I was starting to have second thoughts.
Jim then decided that he wanted to buy me a lap dance. You know, for my birthday. I could have said no, but instead out came the words, “I’m not doing this alone” and I shot a look at Leslie. What the hell, I was already here, and if I was going to write about it the way I am now, the full experience was necessary, especially if others were more than willing to pay for it.
Charlie immediately consented when Jim, P.K. and Kerry shelled out $40 for a one-song dance for two in front of the whole club.
Leslie and I sat next to each other in equally uncomfortable chairs, our backs against the wall so that we were facing our friends and the shabbily suited men scattered throughout the club, each occupied with the lady of their choice at their own tables.
My observations were swiftly interrupted as the music started and Charlie thrust her hands between my knees to pull my legs apart, giving herself ample straddling space. Raucous cheers followed in time with the beats, not including my extremely patient boyfriend who shook his head and didn’t bother trying to hide his amused expression.
When a pair of breasts are jiggling millimeters from your face, it becomes a challenge to look anywhere else. I managed to catch Leslie’s eye and I can say with near certainty that her expression mirrored my own — particularly after Charlie slipped out of her g-string and proceeded to wave her bare bottom just below eye level while straddling us both.
The song wasn’t over soon enough, although I kept imagining it was the end because the music was eventually drowned out by the incessant din of our friends’ uproarious howling.
Charlie finally dismounted and I thanked her awkwardly to be polite. Whether the word “polite” belongs in that last sentence is besides the point. I received a few good-natured claps on the shoulder coupled with “you were such a good sport!” exclamations and I figured that nothing was going to top that — and even if something did, I really didn’t want to stick around to find out what it could be.
Goodbye, Jilly’s. I won’t miss you.
