August 15, 2006: My First Encounter with a Stripper

At 10:30 AM, I walked out the French TGV that had whisked me down from Paris in a little over three hours. I had been through Bordeaux many times on my way to Biarritz and the Pays Basque, but had never actually set foot in this city renowned the world over for its wine.

Today is a national holiday of some sort, one among the innumerable holidays the French have awarded themselves comme ca. Nearly all the stores are closed, except for a boulangerie here and a café there. So I wandered around, took some pictures, and got a feel for the city until it was time for dinner. Earlier, I'd spotted a popular local restaurant that looked promising.

The place was called L’Entrecote and there was a long line of people waiting to get in. I figured if they were willing to wait in the rain for a seat, it had to be good. Once I got in, I found out that life according to L'Entrecote was simple; the restaurant only served one main course and had an overwhelming choice of two wines: red or rose, both house label.

"A bottle of your red please," I said to the waitress.

"A half bottle for you, sir?" She seemed to doubt my manly capacity to hold my liquor; it became a point of principle to prove her wrong.

"No, a full bottle please, thank you."

After my small salad of lettuce and walnuts, after the ribeye steak smothered in bearnaise sauce with a heaping mound of fries on the side, after the six cheeses, and the café with the cream puffs stuffed with vanilla bean ice cream, covered in melted dark chocolate and garnished with finely sliced almonds, after I had dusted off the wine and given my irreverent waitress the stink eye – in short, after having thoroughly gorged myself, I paid the bill and left with my dignity intact and my digestion in a shambles.

I headed out to make friends with some other tourists at a local bar. Apparently this was a serious holiday for the French. No one was on the streets and hardly a bar was open. I had expected to find throngs of tourists pacing the sidewalks, but everyone seemed to have stayed in. Disappointed and tired, I headed back for my hotel.

But just as I was about to walk up to my hotel, out of the corner of my eye I saw five scantily clad young women in an otherwise abandoned bar. I stopped, thought for a second, and tugged at the door. It was locked and I turned to leave, almost relieved. Suddenly, the door opened behind me. I was let in and assured the bar was still open. I figured I’d have one drink before going to bed; that was a terrible idea.

I soon realized from the bartender’s frequent references to the young ladies as “whores” and “dirty little sluts” that this was not a typical bar. The bartender seemed to own the place. He was at least sixty, with a neatly trimmed head of white hair, a long pointed nose, and a healthy paunch that suggested he did not consult the labels on his food for caloric information.

I had a strange feeling the entire joint was working me over. The patron began to chummy up to me and the girls would glance over flirtingly. Confused, I just sat and stared blankly into my Lagavulin, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Suddenly, the eldest girl of the bunch—and also the least attractive—came up to me and began to strike conversation.

“What part of France are you from?” she asked me, narrowing her eyes in suggestive flirtation.

“I’m not French, I’m an American here on vacation.” I replied, nervously gulping my 14 year old scotch, feeling like a child of the same age.

“Where are you from in America?”

“California, southern California, Orange County,” I said quickly, trying to preempt her next two questions with unnecessary detail.

“You speak French very well,” she said coyly, looking at me through narrowed eyes and flashing her nicotine-stained teeth in what must have been an attempt at a suggestive smile.

“Thank you,” I said, looking away from her. I wanted to pretend she wasn't there, so I started carefully reading every alcohol label on the shelves in front of me. This seemed to ease my nervous discomfort. I was wondering how they pronounce Bunnahabhain in Scotland when she started talking again.

“Can I sit next to you?” she asked, almost shyly. How odd, I thought, that she is playing this game with me. I knew I should have left then, but my scotch was terribly expensive and I couldn’t bring myself to leave it half finished. Before I could make up my mind, she was sitting next to me.

She began to interrogate me, feigning interest in my hobbies, in law school, in whatever she could to keep me talking. I was less than obliging and kept all my responses as terse as possible, taking long slow sips of my scotch in the middle of sentences.

“This is a caberet, not just a bar,” she said, smiling at me again with her squinty eyes and yellow teeth. “It is a private club. My friends and I are dancers here.”

I looked at her with my best attempt at seeming obtuse. Frustrated, she took my non-responsiveness as a sign that I was either very weak linguistically or mentally.

“We’re strippers,” she said, cutting to the chase.

“I see.” That’s what I always say when I don’t know what else to say. Sometimes it fools people into thinking I am thinking something deep. I must have picked it up from Chauncey Gardner in Being There.

“Would you like to buy me a glass of champagne?” she asked. She had probably told herself that if this was going to happen, she would have to hold my hand through the steps.

“How much is it?”

“We have small glasses for 22 Euros and large ones for 44. I suggest that you buy me large glass.” Again, that disgusting smile. She really wasn’t helping her cause. There was no way I was paying over $50 for a glass of champagne, so I went on the offensive.

“What does it come with?” She looked shocked and offended. I had broken the code of courtesy between man and stripper.

After a few seconds, her emotion turned from indignation to self-pity and she began to think about her youth, not so long ago, when being turned down by an able-bodied young man in a deserted bar would have been impossible. I almost felt sorry for her.

“Look, I just wanted to have a drink before bed. I’m a student and I can’t afford to buy you drinks or anything else. Besides, I have a girlfriend.”

Outside, I laughed at my naivety. What did I think five young women in “fuck me” dresses were doing in a deserted bar in a deserted city? I laughed at my awkwardness, at my stubborn insistence on finishing my drink, at my revulsion toward the overripe stripper on the hustle. I felt like Holden Caulfield.

I couldn’t wait to go back to my squeaky little bed and forget all about my encounter with the nicotine-stained narrow-eyed champagne-thirsty stripper. I couldn’t wait to forget that I am 22 and afraid of sexual solicitation.