Can I See Your Soul First?

Whenever I travel, I like to do something that is inherent of the place I’m visiting.  In the Caribbean I become a “beach person,” even though back home the feeling of sand on my scalp is likely to result in excessive bitching and a swearing-off of all beachfront escapades until the following summer.  When visiting Japan I actually enjoy eating seafood, while back in New England my orders of chicken breast make local, hardworking fishermen weep.  And my trips to Spain usually unearth a forgotten love of watching an innocent bull be publicly humiliated and skewered to death.  These experiences, though wildly “un-me” in my own environment, help me feel more acclimated to new and alien surroundings when I travel.  If I ever get to visit Italy, the adage “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” will become less a figurative cliché and more of a personal challenge: experience something inherently “Italian” or go buy a fannypack.

While this mentality was inevitable when visiting abroad, my need to experience the new and unique spread to travel within my own country as well.  Back when I did the corporate thing in New York, I took a surprisingly high number of business trips.  This was considering I was fresh out of college, had been situated pretty low on the office totem pole, and had given my company no real excuse to burn thousands of dollars on my aspirations for travel.  In the age of the Blackberry, there was really no need for me to remain in my zip code, so who was I to complain when offered free trips to new and usually exciting places?  I ultimately made it my mission to experience something unique to the place I was visiting upon each new business trip.  In New Orleans, I stayed on Bourbon Street and sampled the beignets at Café du Monde; in Boston, I saw the Red Sox; and in Baton Rouge, after failing to track down some grilled alligator meat, I stayed in the hotel bar and got hammered (yes, this pretty much sums up Baton Rouge).  So, when faced with my recent trip to Las Vegas, I asked myself, “what is inherently ‘Vegas?’”

Casinos were the obvious answer, but I’m no gambling man.  Call me crazy, but plunking down $200 and nervously devouring my fingernails while watching my hard-earned (and sparse) cash be casually swept into the hotel coffers is anything but entertaining.

I eventually landed on strip clubs.  Sure, extravagant shows and trashy, impromptu weddings have come to define Las Vegas as well, but I had Broadway at my disposal back in New York and didn’t know any local hookers with hearts of gold who might want to get hitched.  No, there was something about the local vibe that unrelentingly suggested “naked people” and I didn’t want to deny that.  The city seemed to effervesce sex, with scandalous billboards looming over every block, drunken frat boys and cougars prowling every bar, and hooker calling cards being peddled on every corner.  My epiphany of strip clubs was a logical one; the town is nicknamed “Sin City,” after all.  Of course, the local slogan, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” doesn’t necessarily apply to every sinful experience to be had.  Upon returning home, gluttonous vacationers don’t feel the need to remain mum about the shrimp scampi they had at the Bellagio buffet.  Still, it was clear to me: if the city flag had to be reimagined, it should feature two shapely legs wrapped around an aluminum pole with a pair of clear heels dangling nearby.

So, with a strip club as my target destination, I set out to find the best Vegas had to offer.  Following some diligent research and a number of word-of-mouth referrals, I settled on the Spearmint Rhino – one of Las Vegas’ most famous clubs.  One long cab ride later (after an equally long walk to find the cab), I found myself face-to-chest with the club’s barrel-chested bouncer.  I was alone, my co-workers having abandoned me after hours of research, reconnaissance, and planning.  Some had been too lazy to leave the hotel while others had let their insane workaholism take over.  One had even made it all the way to the club with me but chickened out at the last minute.  It was demoralizing to say the least, but considering how typically lame these people were back in what was widely considered “the best city in the world,” I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Regardless, I was all that remained and was going to see the night through no matter what other roadblocks stood in my way.  Following the Neanderthal’s brief frisk search and an astronomical cover charge, I was inside the belly of the beast, my heart racing with the thud of the bass beat.  The club was lavish, featuring a number of bars, at least four different stages, and a clientele dressed to the nines.  Oh, and lots and lots of strippers.

The first thing that struck me unexpectedly was how forward the strippers were.  Taking a lap around the floor, I was stopped by no fewer than half a dozen women, each attempting to lure me into a dark corner to “talk.”  To say they were “hard at work” would be a gross understatement.  It was unnerving, as I was expecting a simple one stage, one girl setup.  That’s what the movies had prepared me for, anyway.  I was the bright-eyed lamb to their wolves, and I might as well have been salting and peppering myself.

To shelter myself from the perpetual siren songs, I took a seat near the main stage.  I figured at least here, I could enjoy my $15 drink and witness some dazzling acrobatics without the constant harping of the floor girls.  But there was no sanctuary to be had, as sitting made me a stationary target.  Enduring an onslaught of eager-to-please vixens, I deflected the strippers one by one with disinterest and lies about returning friends.  It was an amateur effort, as I’m sure these girls dealt with passive bullshit like mine every day, but it seemed to be working.

My plans were soon foiled, though, as an ambitious girl stepped up and sat right in my lap.  I was speechless; consumed with thoughts of what terrible diseases were invading my bloodstream as I sat staring at her.  Somehow, I shook my molysmophobia and attempted some interaction with my new lapmate.  I started asking her questions about herself and she was taken aback, as if it was the first time anyone had taken an interest in her beyond the exchanging of 20 dollars.  Call me old-fashioned, but I like to know a bit about someone before they shed their skimpy clothing and wag their fake breasts in my face!

So we talked.  We covered everything.  Former jobs, reasons for becoming a dancer, the impact of plastic surgery on the stripping industry.  We were breaching the subject of genealogy  when her entrepreneurial instincts kicked back in, and she asked me for a dance.  Perhaps it was because it was my first time in a “real” strip club (my adventures at the Full Moon Saloon in downtown Philadelphia hardly count as a first) or maybe it was because I thought my new “friend” deserved it, but I eventually agreed.

It was enjoyable, but the whole situation still felt odd: a girl I hardly knew (and whose name I had already forgotten) working so diligently to turn me on.  I needed to know more.  What was underneath the spray-tanned plastic shell?  So I prodded again, this time inquiring about whether her technique changed depending on the personality of her clientele.  Unfortunately, my attempts at deepening our bond were quickly rebuffed as she savored her own decadence and announced, “ooh, my big fake titties.”  Not quite the answer I was looking for.

Her fragmented non-sequitur was puzzling, but even after she had moved onto another guest (with my generous tip in hand), I was left to ponder her enigmatic response.  New strippers continued to approach my chair, but as I attempted a little conversational foreplay, I was met by each with a brick wall of disinterest and stock responses.  Every girl was from someplace else, had just started dancing, and was only doing this temporarily to save up for a dream of theirs.

It wasn’t until I left the building, coming off of an unbearably uninspired final conversation and lap dance from a girl that very well could have been a deaf mute, that my epiphany hit me: strippers are just as bored as the rest of us.  Just like I sat at my desk back in New York dreading discussions about TPS reports and counting down the minutes until 5:00, these strippers were just part of a bored workforce in slightly less binding office attire.  Sure, the hours were drastically different and my office didn’t loop any bad remixes of top-20 from 1999, but these girls were really no different from me: wholly disinterested in talking about work.

In the end, my experience at the Spearmint Rhino was an unexpected one.  Sure, without my ceaseless introspection and my persistent quest to unearth the proverbial rocks under which these poor girls were hiding their true selves, the experience might have been much different.  I guess I only have myself to blame.  But at the basest level, I had a good time.  And so did seemingly everyone else in the joint as well.  I’m sure my exploits will never be posted in any tourist guide or on any destination website, but if I had to Travel Channelize my experience, I guess I would say this: if you are ever in Sin City and are looking for some after-hours fun, go to the Spearmint Rhino.  It is a guaranteed blast, and an adults-only experience that’s inherently “Vegas.”  Just be sure to bring someone to talk to.