Confessions From Abroad: UK Strip Club Sex Education
When I was a horny, gangly fourteen year old, I found myself on a family vacation in the UK. Being the perfect incarnation of angsty teen shitshow, I wrangled myself some free time from their strict itinerary one mid-morning to scour London’s Soho neighborhood near our hotel. Whilst meandering through the backstreets looking for cool record stores, I found myself in an alley facing a barker with a floppy hat. He was leaning against the exposed brick wall smoking a cigarette.
“Wanna see some naked women?” He inquired. I paused briefly and said I did. I was looking for LPs but had accidentally discovered Shangri-La. He asked if I were eighteen and I assured him I was. I followed my Cockney interlocutor through the door and down four flights of stairs, turning 90 degrees to the left at every landing. We strolled into a musky basement with a few employees hanging out around the bar and one lone middle-aged blond stripper in a g-string lazily dancing on a six-inch stage in the corner. My heart beat quickly. The barker sat me at a table and headed back upstairs to continue his duties. I appeared to be the only customer.
A server came over and handed me a menu, telling me there was a two drink minimum each costing ten pounds. I ordered a lager. He mentioned that there was also a cover charge of sixty pounds. He then leaned close to my ear and inquired if I just wanted to watch her dance or if I looking for sex, as he gestured down a hallway to a lit room. I indicated that I just wanted to watch, curious though as to how much that would cost. I was becoming quickly overwhelmed by both the novel sexual opportunities and the insufficiency of the twenty pounds I was given by my parents to buy a record. As my beer arrived, I left it on the table untouched and went over to the bar to tell them this was far more expensive than I had expected and to cancel their services.
The bartender would have none of this considering they had already served me a beer and I had seen the dancer. I apologized and told them I just didn’t have the money for the bill. They instructed me to give them my passport and to go get the money to pay them. They would hold my passport until I brought back the eighty something pounds of debt I accidentally accrued. I looked toward the stairs and considered attempting an escape but knew I would have had to fight past the barker at the door. I thankfully (in hindsight) lied and explained to them I didn’t have my passport either. They said I was a fucking idiot for wandering around London without a passport as the police would never be able to identify my body if something were to happen to me.
My legs shook with adrenaline. I agreed it was foolish but they kept incessantly asking me how much money I had on me. I exasperatedly repeated that I had nothing, worried they would take the identification from my wallet, find me later and beat me to a bloody pulp.
Then, finally, they told me to get the fuck out of the club. I quickly walked up the stairs, past the puzzled barker and out the door; erupting with relief. I dodged an ass-beating and having my passport taken by some of London’s sketchiest. I then purchased Nick Drake’s Pink Moon and began to happily transition back to the teenage equilibrium of tense malaise that family vacations indubitably inspire.
Tweet This
Share on Facebook
Digg This
Save to delicious
Stumble it
RSS Feed
Comments