I Should've Gotten a Magician

As the dutiful Maid of Honor for my sister's upcoming wedding, I was in charge of organizing her bachelorette party. I previously only attended one -- for my now sister-in-law -- but after getting kicked out of a bar and throwing up on my mother, my memory clearly could not guide me on what a bachelorette party is actually supposed to be like.

My bright idea was to find a stripper magician. I was intrigued by the ridiculous possibility of a man, only wearing a bow tie, pulling dildos out of top hats and using my sister as his glamorous assistant. Alas, Google brought me to more midget strippers than I ever knew existed and my goal was never achieved.

Someone suggested Hunk-o-Mania at Club Elegance in Midtown. The gloriously cheesy name and ironic location convinced me it might be fun. Having never seen any sort of stripper event before, I tried to let go of my hesitant judgements as I read the web site's promise of many chiseled Hulk-like naked men dancing.

Nine VIP tickets later -- including a "hot seat" for my sister -- the bachelorette party was set (as far as expected, raunchy single girl antics go).

One step into the club, my party was greeted with penis memorabilia: penis wands, penis pens, penis balloons, headbands with bobble penis horns, veils adorned with tiny, plastic pink penises... until the day bachelors go out with vagina hats, I will never wear or make someone where anything with a penis on their head.

As we settled into our seats, I was overwhelmed by how many bulky men were patrolling the room with the sole purpose to make girls feel special and receive tips. Our waiter greeted us with direct eye contact, leaned in close, and subtly stroked my leg and arms. Was wearing a skirt a mistake? I ordered a vodka on the rocks with a lemon, realizing I was way too sober for whatever is about to happen. He tells me when he returns I will touch his abs and if I like it, give him a dollar. Excuse me?

My mouth readily accepted the iced house vodka in a small plastic cup, while the waiter asked me where I was from. "Jersey but I just moved to Brooklyn" -- I needed to establish how hip I was, that I was not like the dressed up, excitable girls that generally enter this institution.

"Oh really? My father's from Brooklyn..." he tells me, with his crotch an inch from my face. Score, my idea worked, he thinks I am cool and we are discussing something productive.

"Now it's time to touch my abs," he says -- Fail. -- "That's okay, I'm good." I respond, quickly pressing my lips on the straw, sucking up the liquor.

"But everyone has to," he smiles, probably thinking I am just being coy.

"No, really. I am good." Can we just talk about your father again? He walks away and did not address me the rest of the night.

Majority of the club workers were "exotic" but naturally, my eyes migrated toward a tall, toned blonde boy standing along the wall. He looked miserable, like he did not want to work there, like he was strictly there for money but knew deep down he was an incredible musician or writer or something much more interesting and fulfilling than a stripper. Of course, I was projecting my own insecurities and aspirations onto him, but he was so sweet looking I had to believe he wanted more for himself than this life.

I pointed him out to my sister who laughed at how typical my choice was. "You always go for the whitest of whites Stephanie." I knew that was true, I guess I have a type. "He also looks like he's twelve." That was also typical of me, to go for the baby face. In fact, my friends already pinned me into becoming a cougar once I pass my twenties.

My cousin nicknamed him "Kansas" as he looked like an innocent, country boy while my sister-in-law said he reminded her of The Tool as in "Sure, he has a nice body but he has that cute, pre-pubescent boyish charm."

He must've noticed our eyes and whispers and took advantage of this by sauntering over and asking if we wanted a private dance, but he said this with such a thick Russian accent, I was taken even more aback and stuttered a high-pitched, "Oh.. what? Hi.. um, no, uh... thanks.. No, that's okay.. Thanks." Then, sheepishly smiled. Why am I so socially awkward?

He left us while an MC ran onto the stage, "How are all you beautiful women doing tonight!?" the guy yelled into a mic. It did not take much to rev up this crowd. "I have a huge boner right now! I have such a big boner it would knock you back and put your boyfriend or fiance or husband to shame!" The women screamed.

I immediately went to the bar for another drink. Clearly, my waiter was not coming back and how anyone could shout about having a boner into a microphone and not laugh is beyond me.

The lights lowered and "Proud to be an American" played over the speakers as men strut on stage in all sorts of uniforms: a marine, a policeman, a fire fighter, and then my blonde Russian, as a naval officer. The men performed a strange patriotic tribute, lip synching the song and doing choreographed, synchronized salutes.

More naked men later, I began to think something was wrong with me. How could all these women publicly fawn over such contrived behavior? Also, how come it was so easy for them to rub their hands all over the dancers' sweaty bodies while I could hardly make eye contact? Personal space did not exist here. Neither did anyone who thought as much as I did, apparently.

While contemplating why I was perceived as the weird one there, my mind drifted to The Tool and how much I missed his sex. I also began to imagine him as one of these waiters, noting how perfect his abs and broad shoulders would look in the wifebeater uniforms and how his sneaky smile would cause some girls to melt.

My longing was interrupted by the topless, blonde Russian who walked right up to me again but this time with a smirk, like he knew some secret I did not. "I like your hair," he states.

My face reddened and I mumbled, "Thanks," while fireworks went off in my brain. He likes my hair. And he's so fucking cute.

Any solace derived from that comment faded when I noticed my sister and her friends giggling, pulling out their cameras. Instead of taking my hand and leading me to a private room, the Russian placed his hands on my knees and spreads my legs. He preceded to rub his butt into my lap and flex his abs. I closed my eyes tight, not knowing what else to do. So this is a lap dance.

I felt his breath and body heat all over me, while my body was a tense bundle of nerves. My hands were clenched into a tight fist, my shoulders stiff. I kept trying to close my legs but he just kept opening them, insisting on dry humping me as my sister's friends continually grabbed my arm to put my hands on his body. Each time my fingers went anywhere near him, I reacted in such a way you'd think he burned me. I wanted to touch him. I could not touch him. At one point, my reaction was so fast the tip of my finger tugged at his belt loop and I felt the need to utter, "Sorry."

The horrific dance lasted no more than five minutes. He just stopped and walked away. I felt dirty and used. Everyone else got a private room, they got twenty minutes. I got five minutes of humiliation and teasing. If we went into another room maybe I could have convinced him to talk to me, he could've confided in me what brought him to America and why he was stuck stripping. Maybe I could have saved him. Or maybe, I would have just gazed into his blue eyes and he could have saved me.

Flashing lights and house music brought me back to reality. I condemned myself for just thinking of a scenario so fantastical, bought another vodka, and toasted with no one.