This year I have been making it a point to try new things.

My list of first times include:

1. Walking across the Brooklyn Bridge
2. Getting kicked out of a bar
3. Getting carded for buying matches

And now I can add “visiting a strip club”. Yesterday my friend invited me to a private party at Manhattan’s most illustrious strip club. It’s the kind of place where rappers and investment bankers mingle with women who consider cocoa butter an accessory. My only knowledge of strip clubs is from what my guy friends tell me and what I see on rap videos. And since I believe everything I see on t.v. without questioning it, I was confident that this party was going to be just like the “Smack that” video. What was I going to wear? And on a Sunday night?

My friends and I meet up for margaritas at Rocking Horse before going to the party because there are some events that you should not show up completely sober for. Like weddings or losing your virginity.

We finally arrive at the club and I am immediately assaulted by the smell of strawberry vanilla body lotion. It is like Bath & Bodyworks exploded in there. The second thing I notice is the size of the stage. I imagined it to be a lot bigger. And where was the pole? How were the strippers going to do twirls and hang upside down and have rappers douse them in champagne?

The best word to describe the atmosphere of this place is “lethargic”. The dancers looked like they had been ingesting klonopin all night. They make Britney Spears’ VMA performance look like an aerobics workout. I am disappointed. People have told me that I dance like a stripper and judging from what I saw last night i certainly do not. I was really looking forward to learning some new moves. I mean, I saw girls spreading their legs out into a V formation. Hello, that is so 1997. Were they going to start doing the electric slide? I guess that’s what happens when you go to a strip club on a Sunday night. That’s like ordering seafood on a Monday. You’re just not going to get the best quality.

We all sit down on the black leather couches and I am afraid to let my skin make contact with the leather. I notice that there are a couple of men in front of me receiving lap dances. The men have these looks on their faces that seem to say “I’d rather be listening to a lecture on Jane Austen”. The dancers seem to be pretending that they are riding a horse. You have to hand it to these women though. They are really working hard and I can only imagine the kind of guys they have to feign interest in. There was one guy there who looked like the Michelin Man and you could not give me enough pure MDMA to give him a lap dance. I notice that the strippas are always whispering something in the guy’s ear. What could they have possibly been saying?

Stripper: Are you having a good time?
Guy: Yeah. I especially like it when you floss my teeth with your thong.
Stripper: That’s my signature move.
Guy: You’re really something.

Aside from the people watching, the best thing about a strip club is the music. They played all my favorites. Sean Paul. Kanye. Dre. If they had only played some Michael McDonald then it would have been the perfect set. Who doesn’t like the soulful croonings of Michael McDonald on a Sunday night? I start dancing in my seat when a strippa walks over and asks if I wanted to dance with her. I feel like Steve Carrell’s character in 40 Year Old Virgin. “Um, no thanks, I think I’m just going to dance with myself for now. Have a great night though! ” Then she puts her hands around me and pinches my stomach with her acrylic nails. I giggle.

My guy friend advises me to just relax and not take it so seriously. That this all part of their act. Look, I don’t know where those hands have been. She could have been opening and closing her meat drapes for all I know. So I stop dancing. I also try to make as little eye contact as possible because that’s when the dancers come over and offer a lap dance.

My other guy friend tells me I should drink more because I’m more animated when I drink. Some people call it “animated”. I call it picking fights with strangers. So I drink more. There is a tv screen in front of me showing a football game. For the first time in my life I actually pay attention to the game. More strippas come by and ask if we want lap dances. I avoid eye contact as if I’m on the subway during rush hour. Some servers walk over and offer us mini tuna fish sandwiches. I decline. If i had known they they served food at strip clubs then I wouldn’t have eaten dinner.

The DJ changes the music and starts playing techno. This is my cue to leave. I am disappointed that I never get to hear Michael McDonald. All in all, it was just like any average Sunday night. A litle bit of hip hop. Some beer. And women in patent leather boots riding their customers like a bull.