Concrete pencil

By John Hill on May 1, 2008 8:59 AM |

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Concrete Pencil - Dan Bourke bares his soul (anything else costs extra)

When did it become acceptable to go to a strip club?

Because I’m sure it used to be frowned upon. Like many of my generation, I grew up Indie. We were right-on. We read the NME. We sneered at straight society. We were rebels with a million causes.

The only strippers we came in contact with were the ones hired for stag parties. These, more often than not, came dressed as policewomen, allowing sitcom writers a wealth of hilarious mix-up scenarios.

Now, it seems, they are everywhere and could be anyone. Yes, even that mild-mannered secretary sitting opposite you.

And everyone seems to think it’s fine to get up close and personal with them.

Among the broad spectrum of people I know, ranging from journos, accountants and scientists to students, doctors and gardeners, it now seems the norm to have visited a lap-dancing club.

What’s even more unnerving is that most of the women I know are OK with this fact and even look on it with smiling indulgence.

I’m not prudish about this – simply bewildered. I’ve been to my fair share of strip joints courtesy of stag dos and other drunken foolishness. So for those of you who have never been, here’s what happens.

For openers, you walk in feeling really nervous and very British. You shuffle towards the bar, where you and your mates (this has to be done in numbers for courage reasons) order as many pints of lager as you can down in a minute.

Then you stand around for what seems like an eternity. Eventually, one of your group (it is never you) is approached by a scantily-dressed ‘lady’ who leads your friend to a nearby seating area.

Like sheep, you follow. All original thought and sensible comment exits your head. To ease the tension (obviously sexual) while you wait your turn, you make ridiculous jokes.

By now you are feeling rather heady. Turning convention on its head, you flag down a passing girl. In a super-slick voice you ask her to be your private dancer.

What happens then is, of course, not without pleasure. For the first couple of minutes, you watch and marvel at this attractive woman, performing just for you. When she brushes up against your leg, you can’t help but get excited.

But then it all goes a bit Pete Tong. She might do something slightly off-putting, like looking at you with an unattractive leer. You might catch sight of that unsightly boil on her bottom. Or, even worse, your conscience kicks in. Questions race through your brain: Is she being forced into doing this for a living? How much of the money you pay her does she actually receive? The voices. Stop the voices.

And then, if she gets butt naked, you suddenly become the most English man in the room. You get flustered, avert your gaze. Inside, you’re screaming for it to stop, to all go away.

Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe ‘real’ men go upstairs for those little extras and it turns into a heavenly experience unlike my hellish 10-minute nightmare. Who knows?

I’m not saying visiting a strip or lap-dancing club is wrong. But, you know what, it doesn’t seem entirely right either.