She touched me on the leg and asked if I wanted to go "have some fun." What was I supposed to say? The truth was ridiculous ("Oh no, no thank you-I'm just here for the chow mein"), but I tried it anyway. The first girl to approach us was named Kitty. I am a shy person, and so at Showgirls it wasn't the nudity that made me uncomfortable-it was the attention. A crowd of masturbating transients would have been preferable to this empty, dark room, all nipples pointed in my direction. "I feel like I should get an erection just to be polite," my friend muttered. They would have been smoking, relaxing, chatting, drinking Diet Coke. If we hadn't been there, I realized with a lurch, they would not have been dancing at all. Do you think this violates some sort of health code? Surely there are guidelines that regulate the acceptable proximity of bare buttholes to trays of kung pao chicken." I examined the bubbles in my Diet Coke as a series of girls pinched their nipples and wiggled slowly, half-heartedly, around the stage. "So, I mean, when you have a boner, are you also hungry? That seems weird. "You guys order takeout?" "Yep! Today's Panda Express day!" "So that's how the buffet works?" I asked. Sit down and enjoy some ladies while you wait." The cover was $5, and an additional $10 bought us the all-you-can-eat food and bottomless soft drinks. "The buffet is not here yet, but it'll be here soon. "Hello," I said, "I understand you have a lunch buffet, so we just wanted to check it out. There was a cute girl at the front desk-the only female in the building who wasn't wearing platform Lucite heels. I was shocked, honestly shocked, at the depth of my own discomfort. I discovered that deep inside my liberal, liberated, sex-positive core, I, Lindy West, am actually Mother Superior at the Barbara Bush Wet Blanket Academy for Totally Uptight School Marms. What I was to discover inside the Déjà Vu Showgirls in Lake City wasn't just a semi-gross buffet and some gently gyrating buttholes. "Do you think we have to see her vagina later?" "Yes." "All right, let's go." I thought about onion rings, and wished I could unthink them. A woman stood outside in the sunshine, smoking, wearing a "skirt" roughly the size of an onion ring. We pulled into the parking lot, which was ominously empty. I was on my way to my first strip-club experience, and it was noon on a sunny day. Certainly the idea had been floated (you know, in college) as a silly rite-of-passage novelty, but I'd never actually gotten around to going. No." How was it possible that I had never been to a strip club? I felt like I definitely had, but then again, maybe that was just all the Flavor of Love and Rock of Love and A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila talking. "Have you been to a strip club before?" my friend asked me as we drove north on I-5.
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