Per Capita

Stop me if you heard this one before...

It was 5:30. It had taken nearly a half hour to slog through traffic heading out of downtown. The Ross Island Bridge was narrowed due to construction, but once over, it was a straight shot to Tom's house, on 26th...

I was gussied up in lawyer garb. Tom had goop in his hair and wore a snappy linen shirt. It was Wednesday. Obviously, we were headed for a strip club.

It was our weekly night of debauchery. Like painting the Golden Gate Bridge, we tried to canvas every club in Portland's vast titty-bar buffet, but along the way, clubs we had visited closed, and new ones opened in their place. The project never ended.

The rule was to go, sit, and have one beer. Then, you could say you had been there. At times, we were able to hit up to five in one night. Often we brought guests. Sometimes, it was just the two of us. We occasionally made friends at our regular stops, and we learned the pattern of which clubs got hot, and when.

For me, it didn't really matter whether the club was a premium joint, or a dump. I was there for the circus. Sometimes, I say "Freakshow," but that conveys an unintended negative implication...

Anyway...

Once again, Tom and I were out for cheap thrills and cold beer.

(By the way, right now, as he reads this, Tom is a little uneasy and thinking to himself: "Oh lord, which one is Brian going to tell this time...?" Don't worry, Tom, this is the one about me at Tommy's)

So, OK, where was I? Oh yeah...

Tom and I were out for cheap thrills and beer. Generally, we would break down our prospects by geography, concentrating on the SE, the west side, the airport, 82nd, Sandy, or the far east. That night, however, we were feeling lazy and not a little bit lackadaisical. So, we stayed close to home, focusing on our familiar favorites on Powell Boulevard, just down the street from his place.

Really, there were two. Doc's was a home away from home. They knew us there. We knew them. My favorite feature was the outside patio stage in the summer time. Blue sky, warm breeze, cold drinks, and naked women wriggling on the tiny stage beneath fake palm trees...

The second was Cocktails and Dreams. Famous, mostly for Wednesday-Night-Big-Girl-Night. The performers there seemed to be a bit naughtier...

Between the two clubs, though, lay a non-descript orange-painted shack. On the side of which was painted the name: "Tommy's."

For some reason, we had, up to that point, completely overlooked the existence of this club. That night, however, we were up for something new. So, we walked in.

It was, as expected, a low-budget rundown shit hole. There was a tall man, with a 1970's style afro sleeping at the bar. It appeared that he had perhaps been sleeping for a long time because many people had taken the opportunity to stick straws, plastic forks, sugar packets and bits of paper into the folds of his hair.

I suddenly grew hopeful...

The drinks were watered down. The music was, um, primarily Urban in nature. The rotation was small, but should have been smaller.

Suddenly, without warning, a tall red-haired secretary with nerd-girl glasses and spiked heels appeared out of nowhere. She was hot. Shockingly so, and she was completely out of place in this dive. She was smart too, and witty, able to hold off both Tom and I in conversation, all while removing her underwear.

Somehow, without me knowing he had done it, after the secretary's set was over, Tom went over to have a chat with her. This left me alone at the rack.

Then, the final girl in the rotation came out onto the stage. In stark contrast to the secretary, this girl looked like she could be the mascot for Tommy's.

She weighed maybe 100 pounds, if she were holding a brick. Rail thin, maybe a size 2, with only tiny skin flaps for breasts. She was friendly though, and smiled with her crooked stained smile. Unfortunately, her costume selection was a leather-strap-and-brass-ring dominatrix harness, made for someone who was perhaps a bit more statuesque.

The twin brass rings on her chest, which were designed for ample C or D sized mams, simply circled and highlighted her tiny protuberances, like little eyes winking behind big glasses.

I held my seat at the rack. Even as every other patron in the bar scooted quickly away from the stage. This was the show. This was the reason to go.

I was not disappointed.

The dancing was awkward and disjointed, but earnest. She was friendly, but not very witty. She had been practicing the moves, but needed a little more practice.

Finally, after the second song, the harness came off. I was glad to see that distraction go. But then... oh then...

There is a move, for those of you who don't know, where the dancer faces away from you, then bends over at the waist and waves hello between her knees. And that is the exact move she attempted right then.

A moment passed in that position. Then, it seemed, we both saw it at the same time...

It was a large, crumpled, pulpy wad of used toilet paper, and it was well-lodged in her craw. I was thrilled. She was unfazed.

"Oh, that doesn't belong there," she said, and in one fluid motion, reached up and flicked the paper, sending it sailing past my head over my left shoulder onto the floor behind me.

Whereas, I had already been tipping well, I opened my wallet and and showed true appreciation.

Helping a friend move this week has taken me past the Powell Boulevard clubs a dozen times, which has rung my Pavlovian stripper bell... It has also gotten me thinking about starting a new project.

Either here or in a related blog, I'm hatching a plan to document and review every strip club in Portland, which won't be easy because of that oft-quoted statistic. Does Portland actually have more strip clubs per capita than any other city in America? Who knows! I am, however, willing to visit all of them, for your sakes, of course...