7 Songs too Long

Attraction for me, as with most women, is very cerebral. This is all wonderful and meaningful and yada yada, but in truth I've sometimes felt cheated that (most) men can become excited, at least thoroughly entertained, by simply gawking at a women’s bare body. The overwhelming strip club, porno and nudy mag industry are proof of this - not to mention that a dude will generally just say so. No shame, and why should there be? I wanted a little piece of this, so last month for the First time, I went to a male strip club. Here’s my story.

I sent out the FB invite as a rejection to Valentine’s Day entitled, “How to Avoid VD Ron Jeremy Style”. Get it? VD - valentine’s day/venereal disease, strip club…anyway. A small bunch of us gathered outside Remmington’s after dusk - prepared for a bit of stupid fun. Soon after claiming our creep seats and settling into the show, I found that I was actually, really enjoying the scene. The guys were hot and preformed some pretty outstanding tricks on the pole. It was still completely tongue and cheek of course, but the crowd wasn’t the pathetic chick n’ pom poms riot that I had expected, so all was good.

I made my selection. A very sexy young ginger covered in tattoos who dominated the pole like an acrobat. My friend set it up and before I knew it, I was being escorted up a black lit staircase to a private dance room. Hold on now - of course I was going to have a dance! It’s part of the experience! Nervous and unknowing though, I asked stripper X how it worked and what the boundaries were. I felt SO out of place. Would he touch me…with IT? What would we talk about (like talking was on the agenda! what an idiot.) I rambled on for a bit about completely dumbass stuff like the weather and my Sunday brunch plans until he finally shut me up with “everything is negotiable, let’s get started”.

I sat like a kid in a dunce cap on the small bench behind the musty curtain watching him pulse around as I tried to maintain my best “ooohh, I’m so turned on” face when in reality my only thoughts were "I’m such a cougar", "is being scared normalright now, and then suddenly, “Oh shit how long have we been in here?!”

Here’s where my lack of experience kicks me in the ass.
I politely thanked and complimented him (seriously Sarah?) as he dressed and we made our way to the pay counter. I’d been too nervous and forgot to ask the price prior to purchase so when I did and he responded - “7 songs” - I was confused. Ok…so…ya…what does that mean? Stripper X says “Well, it’s $20 per song”. GASP!!! Dance + tax + tip = $191.48 for (likely) the most unusually awkward experiences of my life. I can't even tell you one song that played....ahem, and I'm convinced they must have been 2 minute songs.

In the end, I no longer envy a man’s ability to enjoy primal, detached desires. Have fun with your peep shows and videos boys. This girl is happy to have strings attached - they’re free.

Granny Power

I think it’s pretty amazing that somehow in the late 90’s, it became cool to go Granny. Maybe it was always there and I’m just late in noticing, but all of a sudden things like baking (especially cupcakes which aren’t fully Granny, but kinda), crocheting, decorating with doilies (see Anthopology.com) and knitting spiked in popularity among the young female adult crowd. Granny glasses are now hip (and annoying at that), old ugly granny shoes and furs go for $50-$200 at 69Vintage and dare I say, I read a fashion article the other day titled “Granny Chic”.

My Granny Westman was the best. She lived well over 90 years and still regularly sent feisty political letters to city council. She wrote a children’s book, painted in oil and had her own a kiln in her wee downtown Peterborough apartment.

When I visited, she would play creepy organ music for me as I explored her home like a museum and begged her to remove her wig and/or falsies. She never did, she was a lady. She always smelled of musty moth balls and flowery perfume which was comforting in an unusual, non-threatening way. Her collection of home-made dried apple dolls however did cause quite a threat to my tender eyes and mind. She had this hobby of drying out old apples, molding faces in them, adding bodies and clothes and then display them as her dearest treasures. Seriously - the weirdest shit ever. Google image “dried apple dolls”, but don’t sleep alone that night.

Anyway, my Granny Westman was far from typical. In fact, I never saw her rock in a chair or knit a stitch - two very quintessential Granny traits. So, when I completed my First scarf ever (yes, on this first day of spring during the mildest winter of my life…how fitting) I thought of my Granny and wished I could give it to her. She would of course snicker and say that I'd knit a shawl, not a scarf, but she's dance around in it for a bit just to be sure I were entertained.

In closing, I'd like to point out that with my last name, if I’m ever fortunate enough to have Great-Grandkids, I will forever be referred to as Granny “Power”!