Mr. Griffin's Establishment for Gentlemen

Mr. Griffin’s Establishment for Gentlemen
by david macpherson
Of course there are a lot of strip bars to choose from. Naturally. But for us, we always go to Griffin’s. The strippers here go the extra mile to our mind, they go beyond taking off their clothes, they take off everything. The dancers here are invisible. You can’t see them at all. When they hit the stage ready to strut and shimmy all we see is stripper ware and red fuck me pumps sashaying to Nancy Sinatra singing These boots are Made for Walking.
We shout and holler as high heels and a halter top twirl around the pole. We toss dollar bills at where we think the girl is and the bills float and dive in the air for a long moment like hang gliders or sea birds circling over schools of fish.
We have to believe in what we aren’t seeing. Some of our number will stare at the pole and murmur, she’s there. She’s right there. And she’s hot. I know it. Others will just smile and close their eyes.
At the change out, we witness a large amount of dollar bills raking itself into a pile and levitating in the air only to jostle out the back curtain. The dancers we talk to swear they make more here than in those ridiculous joints where they are visible. Seen. Say its great.20 The dancers don’t have to bother with mascara or implants or pent up smiles. They just need to be hidden.
Not all of us do it, but some of us line up for the lap dances. Swear it’s the best thing to get a lap dance by an unseen woman. They say that in a typical joint, you got to close your eyes to feel the way we do in Griffin’s.
At the bar, the dancers will slide next to us and we won’t know it. At Griffin’s its best to just buy another drink and half the time the liquid will go down by itself. It’s also smart to talk into the air like some naked woman is next to you, because it might be so. We could be talking to the most beautiful woman in the world or to no one at all, it really doesn’t matter.
We open up. Let flood the lowlands. Rediscover the broken spokes. Hope someone is listening. Hope no one is listening. We all oversleep on Sunday. Don’t bother with sermons or confessionals. We come here. Practice penitence to a ZZ Top soundtrack. We leave absolved with no cash in our wallets for cab fare. We pretend pilgrimage and shuffle towards an approximation of some neon mecca.