Sweeter than Tupelo Honey

Certain circles of Las Vegas teenagers celebrate their birthdays with a trip to Little Darlings—the only 18+ strip club in town. I was not in one of those circles. Yet somehow, during my final summer at home before heading off to college, I found myself with a group of kids astounded by the fact I had yet to visit Lil’ Ds. I soon became the designated driver for my own belated birthday tour of the underbelly of Las Vegas.

The trip landed us on the aptly named Industrial Road about halfway between my usual two destinations: residential suburbia and the Strip. Although I had never ventured into this part of town, two of the girls in our group were seasoned veterans. They pulled a shoebox full of one-dollar bills out of the trunk of the car and led me through the doors of my first strip club.

We entered the club through two metal detectors followed by pat-downs from a silent bouncer. “We’ll need a discount on the cover charge. It’s his birthday,” one of the girls told a woman who then collected ten bucks from each of us without checking IDs.

I chose a seat far from the stage to enjoy my trip into the seedier side of the city, assuming distance meant safety. Young boys dressed in cheap suits spat game at wandering strippers who looked only a few years older, and women dressed in laughably predictable costumes performed on poles.

Then, a woman named Cynthia approached to offer me special services in the VIP room. Terrified, I left to ask my friends next to the stage when we could leave. They gave me a stack of five bills and told me we weren’t done until I had spent them. So, I waited until the current stripper had finished performing her routine to hand her a dollar bill, thinking the exchange showed more respect—a simple congratulations on a great cardio workout.

As I backed away from the stage with one less dollar, the woman motioned to her body and asked “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you want any of this?” I laced my reply with sarcasm. “No, no. I’m one of them homosexuals,” I said in a feigned show of confidence.

“Not anymore,” she replied and dragged me to my feet by my shirt, pulling my face into her breasts. I tried to escape, but she tugged me in again, throwing her chest back and forth to effectively slap me in the face with her boobs. The rest of the night is a dazed blur, but my trip to Little Darlings will always be one of my best “travel” stories, right in my own hometown. Perhaps, I’ll return when I feel ready to brave the VIP room.