It was my second time walking into Chicas, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. The air inside was heavy with a mix of perfume, alcohol, and something I couldn’t quite place—maybe a hint of adrenaline. I tried to play it cool, acting like I knew what I was doing, but my eyes betrayed me, darting everywhere, taking in the scene. Women in glittering outfits—or sometimes barely anything at all—moved gracefully on the stages, their movements hypnotic. It was almost overwhelming.
I found a seat near the back, wanting to watch but not be in the thick of it. The waitress who brought my drink had this practiced ease about her, making small talk that felt natural despite the noise. I sipped my beer and tried not to stare too much, though it was hard not to. One of the dancers made eye contact with me from across the room, a sly smile playing on her lips. It was disarming in a way I hadn’t expected. There was a strange mix of intimacy and distance in the whole experience—a performance just for you, but also for everyone else. I couldn’t help but wonder how they saw the guys sitting in here, myself included.
