This stripper almost kissed me.
Somewhere between the rainbow flashing lights, the sweat and the distraction of the overwhelming cleavage and shrunken G-string, I lost my footing. She leaned in, tossing her long black hair over my eyes and suddenly gave me a hug, wrapping her arm around my neck, whispering in my ear. Welcome to the strip club.
We spent the first part of our Saturday night at Camelot, Washington's premiere strip club, where the girls look like they fell from the pages of Maxim or Playboy. Simply, these strippers are hot. Most have plastic breasts and other surgically altered parts - a nose job here, liposuction there - but whether plastic or plain, they are all beautiful.
I wouldn't venture into this stripper kingdom alone. I traveled with my two best friends, who are my own version of the Hilton sisters - tall, blonde, sassy women blessed with cleavage and always up for anything. We have been tossing this idea around for weeks. After talking and overanalyzing, finally we decided to stop the discussion and literally put our money where our mouth is.
Our stripper curiosity began after hearing a friend's boyfriend rave about Camelot. He bragged about the beautiful women, the scandalous pole moves and the strong drinks. It sounded like a jungle of naked, exotic women. There were pole tricks, sleazy bachelors and smug married men waving their dollar bills like auction signs.
After bar hopping in Dupont, I had witnessed the lengthy lines of men wrapped around the block, always wondering what all the fuss was about. We were drawn to this adult candy land to learn the tricks that differentiate a bedroom movie-clip from an extraordinary strip.
We wanted to experience first-hand what all the fuss was about. Standing impatiently in line behind herds of men, the fuzzy rap music reached the front door. Eventually, it was our turn to go in.
Despite the heat and lights, we were distracted by the men huddled around each small table. They looked like starved dogs drooling over their rum and Cokes. We got a booth front and center.
Our first stripper couldn't have been older than 22. I bet she goes to University of Maryland and is becoming a pediatrician. She looked like a porn star. The girls and I darted toward the stage, blocking an older man sporting a comb over and excessive chest hair. Our stripper slid down the golden pole and spun, landing on her clear plastic stilettos. It looked like a move out of the movie "Dirty Dancing," the nudist version. By this point, the outfit was off and there were bare breasts in our face.
"You're such an incredible dancer," I said.
"Oh, you girls are so sweet," she said, thrashing her long brown hair over my head. Every move was more seductive than the next. We were mesmerized. After her dance, she rushed to our table, told us how cute we were and gave us each a hug. I felt like she was my Girl Scout troop leader. I had no idea strippers were so warm and fuzzy.
In between our first and second strippers, entered the bachelor party, which sat next to us. The bachelor's name was Joe. He's a psychologist in Arlington, and wanted to know whether I thought stripping is degrading to women, whether I was turned on or repulsed. His curiosity lingered as I sipped my martini. "I have never seen a stripper before," he confessed.
"This is my first time too," I replied. We were stripper virgins, but not anymore.
Our second stripper entered and we all acknowledged that she was a Barbie doll clone, but couldn't help staring. Her breasts were so perky; she looked like if she jumped up she could lose an eye. She was completely waxed, which is much cuter than the porn strips most strippers sport. We were intrigued. We hurried to the stage and stuck our crisp dollar bills in her garter belt. At the end of this dance, her belt was full.
Afterward, Audrey made her way to our table. We hugged and talked and somehow her number ended up in my cell phone. My friend has offered to cook her dinner and we'll all throw in some cash in exchange for a group stripping lesson. Roast chicken in pesto with our newest best friend.
"I want to learn how to give a lap dance," we all confessed.
Every girl secretly wants to have stripper moves - for our boyfriends, for our mystery men, to teach our girlfriends and simply for ourselves. It's one of our secret girl fantasies.
Strip clubs provide both men and women eye candy and erotic fantasy. Men come for the unemotional, unadulterated fantasy. In this wet dream there are no commitment conversations or shopping charades. The strip club also allows women to ogle other women in a socially acceptable environment. Women get to act out the dream of being strippers themselves by living vicariously through these stage performers. In the bedrooms of men and women alike, everyone wants to be able to impress. They come to Camelot to learn a lap dance from the women that give them best.
After hours of fantasy strips, we were ready for our next adventure. And so we gulped down our drinks and said goodbye to the bachelor party. All we talked about for the rest of the night was our soon-to-be stripper status, at least in our men's bedrooms. Now all we need are stripper names...
Jessica Bacharach is a senior print journalism major and women's studies minor. Caught with your pants down runs every Thursday. Connie Heiss writes next week.
