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• jackattack107

"No way in HELL." I protested.

I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair to denote my firm, moral stance. The loud chattering of fellow gamblers, the cheering of the fortunate but few winners, and the incessant beeping and booping of the slot machines had the first floor of the MGM Grand bustling with life.

Five of my friends and I had taken over a blackjack table and turned it into our own private clubhouse.

"I've gone through twenty-four years of my life without stepping into a strip club and I plan to keep it that way!"

"Quit being a fucking lame ass!" one of them exclaimed.

"Yea! We didn't fly all the way here from Atlanta just so we could NOT go to a strip club!" chimed another.

In 2008, I had packed my bags and left for Southern California to chase my dreams. I didn't tell a single soul outside my family and two or three close friends. No big send-off, just disappeared one day from Atlanta – just the way I wanted. I hadn't seen these guys in almost a year and this trip was a reunion of sorts.

“Dude, California's made you super lame!”

“Cah-lee-fuh-nee-uh.” another friend said in his best Arnold Scwarzenegger accent.

This prompted a two minute session of out-of-context Arnold quotes amongst the table (with impressions ranging from uncanny to piss-poor), much to the delight or chagrin of our dealer.

I don't know if it was the alcohol, my innate hunger for adventure, or an obligation towards my friends, but after mulling over it during the next two hands, I finally gave in.

"Okay, it's fucking Vegas. Let's do this.”

They cheered as we slammed back the remainder of our drinks. They couldn't have bolted any faster to exchange their chips.

What ended up transpiring that night (and morning) would smash every pre-conceived notion I had about strip clubs. From feeling genuine terror that we were going to be robbed on the car ride there to drunkenly wrestling one of my friends away from a cackling Michael Clarke Duncan, it was an incredible eight-hour romp at Sapphire.

In the cab ride back to the hotel, I thought to myself, "Well, that was fun. A good one-time only thing!"

Exactly two years to the day, I was back in Atlanta, perched atop a black stool with a glass of Macallan 18 neat. I took a swig and chuckled at the memories.

The Mavericks had already trounced The Heat with Dirk's godly shooting skills, Chandler's tenacious defense, Kidd's finessed ball-facilitation, Terry's timely threes, Barrea's innocuous drives, and Marion's absurdly bizarre jump shots. With the NBA season over and the lock-out officially in play, my attendance at the strip club would surely plummet - a notion that brought some relief.

While I enjoyed my visits, I always lamented the habit. What better time to call it quits than the two-year anniversary of my first trip?

For most of the night, Alanna had been with one of lauded regulars of the club, a man by the name of Perry. He was a squrrely middle-aged man that spent by the thousands. His table on any given night resembled a harem, surrounded by no less than five girls at once. I've counted a record of twelve at one time during a previous visit.

You could see some of the patron's fuming with frustration. They would tip their infatuations for the night only to watch them briskly walk off stage and right into Perry's already crowded table. All they could do was clench their jaws. sip their cheap beers, and grumble in anger.

When Perry had his fill for the night and finally waltzed out the club, Alanna made her way to me.

"Why hello, Jack." she swooned. "Sorry. Perry."

"Hey, no need for that. You gotta do what you gotta do."

She smiled and sat down next to me. Over the past few visits, Alanna's tough, alpha-bitch exterior had melted to reveal a sweet and grounded persona. Quite a foil to her previous two hyperbolic modes. Whatever mask she had put on for the job was temporarily taken off when she sat next to me.

I broke the news that this visit was going to be my last but she just glossed over it, not believing a single word of it. As per usual, after a few drinks, we made our way back to the V.I.P. room.

"Is this really your last time here?"

"Yup"

"Well," she whispered into my ear, "let's make it count.”

She immediately jumped on top of me and initiated the first kiss. Thirty-minutes whisked by before another word was spoken.

"Alanna, last song." grumbled a manager from beyond the curtain.

We both snapped back into reality. In the act of gathering ourselves, our eyes met and we shared a laugh at the absurdity of the moment.

"Give me your phone." she said with a grin.

"Um, why?" I stupidly inquired while she pulled her top up.

"We've got good chemistry, Jack. If this really is your last time, we shouldn't just let that go to waste."

I hesitantly pulled out my phone and surrendered it. While most patrons would be ecstatic in this situation, I approached it with trepidation and slight dread. Past experiences told me this wasn't going to work out.

The glow from the screen softly lit her jubilant face as she dialed in her information.

"Here." she said, handing the phone back to me.

"So, Krystal Richardson."

"Mm hmm."

"You know, your real name is actually more stripper-ish than your stripper name."

She playfully punched me in the chest. "Shut up!"

"Alanna, the song's been over! You guy's extending?" the manager's voice boomed.

I shook my head.

"I'm coming out!" she shouted over her shoulder before looking back at me.

"Call me."

"Of course."

Her tender smile quickly dissipated into a stern glare as she suddenly put up a defensive shield.

"But this isn't, like, a booty call kind of thing. I'm not going to just fuck you."

I laughed, "When in our time together did I ever give you the impression that's what I was after?”

It was true. For a guy who frequented the strip club as much as I did, I never walked in with the intention of getting the fervently sought after “extras” as some of the enthusiasts do. That's not to say I didn't enjoy those activities. Like any warm-blooded male mammal, I do derive pleasure from sexual encounters, just, not in this environment, not under these circumstances, not in the sexual equivalent of a fast-food restaurant.

I could see Alanna's tensed up muscles relax as her ethereal glow returned.

She hugged me and softly reminded me, "Don't forget to call."

With a farewell kiss on the cheek, we parted ways for the night. As I trekked through the smoke-hazed main floor, past the dancers on stage lost in an erotic trance, past the gruff floor managers ready to pounce at a moment's notice, past the desolate sea of lap dances, I thought to myself, "This is it, Jack. Soak it all in. There's no coming back."

I couldn't be more wrong.