"I've danced for you before, yes?" Yessica asked (in Spanish) as she slid into the seat next to mine. "It wasn't this club--different club. About one year ago...in fact exactly this week last year!" she pronounced proudly, as I sat there, mouth agape.
The mouth was agape for a variety of reasons. Let's start with the fact that she looked like a mix of Beyonce and the model Iman. Then there was the table dance I had just received from her, which was literally breath-taking. Add to that the fact that out of probably 5,000 table dances over the last year, she remembered specifically dancing for me exactly a year before. Put them all together and you get a whole lot of agape.
As I prepare to visit Mazatlan for the first time since the above incident, I remembered how...uh...special my first trip had been. My first flight to Mexico was exactly three weeks after the events of 9/11. A year-and-a-half earlier I landed in Bogota to see soldiers with machine guns and dogs stationed every few feet at the airport. Now PDX looked just like the Bogota airport.
I had been planning this trip for all of 2001. Nothing and no one could have stopped me: my first vacation in 7 years, my first time alone in a foreign country and my first chance to try out the Spanish I had been teaching myself. At this point I could speak more Spanish than the average American, but that's not saying much.
Researching for the trip I had made contact with a guy who would be in Mazatlan while I was there, and we agreed to connect there. I knew the guy was a former biker who liked to ride a lot of dangerous and/or desolate routes. When I met him at his hotel, and he opened the door, I could have sworn I was looking at the real-life Eric Bama version of Doc Savage.
Doc Savage's name was Glenn, and he was a Hell's Angel for seven years then went to Thailand and studied martial arts for two years. On his return to the U.S. he opened his own martial arts school in southern California which had, by that time, been operating successfully for 22 years. Glenn was 6'2", 220 lbs, and not a drop of fat anywhere. There was no doubt in my mind that he was someone who "can take care of himself," and that the average person would rather punch a fire hydrant than take on this guy.
Over dinner we shared histories. Glenn had been to strip clubs, bordellos and massage parlors all over the world. We chose one of the local strip clubs, hailed a cab, and were on our way. I knew that this wasn't going to be "From Dusk to Dawn," but it would definitely be a step removed from the clubs I'd been to in Portland and Canada. Most of all I didn't have to "know the ropes" at this new experience; Doc Savage would guide me through it. Casual sex with no social embarassment? Sign me up!
The place was on the oustkirts of town, with several other clubs located nearby. As we walked into a loud room the size of a high-school gymnasium, one of the dancers, who was talking to a short stout woman who was probably from the kitchen. As Glenn and I passed, she interrupted herself with a loud "Oh my God!" Glenn must be used to this by now, as we walked on without taking note.
The room was dominated, in sight and sound, by the girls dancing on the proscenium stage on the left wall. Tables and chairs were packed into the space and the back wall offered a series of doors to...a room? A booth? We sat facing center stage, but in the very back. The club was lit so that the ladies could get a good look at the men. When a man wanted a table dance, he would grab the m.c. (who chattered incessantly into a wireless microphone) and point to the girl he wanted. The girl would be brought down and given a ticket. None of the table-dance money goes to the girls, just to the house. The girls get credits, however, for every table dance, and they get something with enough tickets.
The real moneymaker for the girls is "privado," which means you go behind those closed doors at the back of a club with your chosen partner, and do whatever the two of you agree on doing. The girls insist on safe sex and each one gets tested once a week. A girl could make $40-$75 in one fifteen-minute session, and the primary sales tool for "privado" is the table dance, so the ladies get inspired and creative when it comes to showtime at your table.
I ordered a table dance from the best-looking chica in the place. She was a dead ringer for pornstar Lanny Barby and she sat on my lap for a moment, grinding away a bit while there. Then she hopped up onto the table, on all fours, with her butt facing me. I was certainly admiring what I could see from that point, but something evidently was missing. To my right I heard a heavy Mexican accent saying, "Totch her! Totch her!" As soon as I figured out that this meant "Touch her..." I felt each of Lanny's ankles lock into one another behind my neck.
Lanny suddenly bent at the knees and slammed her ankles forward, towards her butt. As the ankles made contact with her ass, so did my face. At this point I figured a simple grope would not be taken unkindly, so I placed each hand on one of her butt cheeks. This was done mainly so that, if smothering, I could possibly press clear of her nether regions and draw in oxygen instead of sweat.
The Mexicans around me were having a great time. It was obvious that gringos in this club were few and far between, and so having such an entertaining novice as me was a welcome spectacle. They were pointing and laughing, poking one another in the ribs. Once the "fourth wall" is "broken" in this kind of performance, one forgets completely about the audience, and it's all about doing all the things you want to do in a U.S. club that would get you arrested if you tried them here.
Lanny finished up her dance and left just as someone entered the room. A bunch of someones as it turns out; about five or six Mexican bikers entered the club. No one said a word to them and they looked at no one as they filled up the seats around Doc Savage and myself. The leader had to confront Glenn, obviously. You go right up to the "alpha male" if you're in the biker leader's shoes. He sat down next to Glenn and I saw Glenn lean towards the biker leader and tell him about his journey.
Glenn was at the beginning of a motorcycle trek that would take him--solo--from California to Tierra del Fuego and back again. "Verdad?" the biker asked ("for real?" in English) Glenn smiled and looked even more like Doc Savage than before. Glenn introduced me and I tried to be nonchalant as I raised my Pepsi in a "toast." I was gambling that my innate lameness would not overpower Glenn's Doc Savage mojo and I was correct. "Faahr out mayeen!" the leader exclaimed and we were in.
I ordered another table dance, partly to demonstrate my manliness to "the guys" (they had moved from "future defendents" to "the guys" instantly) and also to provide them some entertainment. I thought I would enjoy a dance from an unexpected blonde who looked more like a student at Stanford or USC than a stripper in a Mexican bar. Her name was Eve and was more athletic than voluptuous. I found out later that in the late 19th century, many German immigrants flocked to Mazatlan. Their numbers have never gotten really high, but it is possible to find blue-eyed blonde mexicanas in Mazatlan. She came over to the table and gave a notable performance. I toasted her with my Pepsi and the gang toasted as well.
Then it hit me: here I am in what most people back in Portland would think of as a dangerous if not terrible place, among violent criminals in a sinister setting...but no! This place would not be dangerous under any circumstances (the only theft going on was short-changing customers, not mugging them). And if anyone was insane enough to start something with me, they'd have Doc Savage AND a Mexican biker gang on their sorry ass in no time! That's when I realized that I was, in fact, as safe as I've ever been in a night club anywhere. A martial artist built like the obelisk in "2001" and five badass dudes carrying guns and knives had my back. Nobody would mess with me tonight.
Maybe it was the testosterone in the room, or maybe the quality of the women at the club, but I began to consider that the situation was safe enough that I would take the big step and pay for some "privado." I remembered that the judge was due to sign our divorce decree soon and I realized that this was my one opportunity to really commit adultery! We had been split for 9 months and the restraining order on her was still in effect, so we were no longer in touch. On paper we were still married, though, and knowing I was "cheating" on this woman gave me a warm glow all over. I arranged to meet Eve in one of the rooms in back.
We were given "enough time"; i.e.-15 min. or 3 songs, whichever happened first ("whichever came first" seemed inappropriate). My number one concern was that the intro to the first song would be "enough time." As it turns out, Eve was not only enthusiastic but accomplished, and when the last chorus to the third song began, she kicked into some "turbo mode" and we ended as the song was fading out.
Before I left I decided on one more table dance, the dance Yessica was still recalling a year later. Checking email the net day I found out the judge had squeezed in one extra case near 5 pm Friday. Our divorce decree was signed at 5:10 pm, about six hours prior to my adventures that evening. Kind of a perfect ending though; it's oddly reassuring to know that I can't pull off some good adultery even when I try my best. And I don't need Doc Savage and a Mexican biker gang watching my back to be a memorable table dance customer.
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