Nicole is publishing weekly stories from her online dating journey on her website right here and for the rest of May we’ll be publishing weekly footnotes to her stories.
It’s 9 o’clock on Friday night and we’ve found ourselves outside Club Minx on Elizabeth Street.
“What about this place?” he says. He’s only half joking.
My date is twenty-two and from the Scottish highlands. His name is Dermot and he’s attractive in a smiley, twinkle-eyed kind of way so I don’t mind that he never shuts up. We ate tacos earlier, or rather he talked and I ate tacos.
“You know you look really great for your age,” he said. “My last girlfriend was in her thirties too and didn’t look half as good as you.”
I reached for one of his tacos. “Thanks.”
I ate tacos with a twenty-two year old Scott because I’ve made a commitment to online dating. The website I’m on tells me that I have to meet at least seven different men before I’m likely to find one I like. This is man number four.
“I don’t mind strip clubs,” I tell him now. “They’re pretty interesting.”
He takes this as a challenge.
“Well then, let’s do it!”
I’ve never felt threatened by strippers and I’ve never been disturbed by strip clubs. At least none of the ones with cover charges (the free ones in Fortitude Valley have an air of desperation and drug abuse and some of the girls are in dire need of a shower and quality dental work). Where the cover charge is between $10 and $20 the experience is usually pretty good.
We are approached the very second we get our drinks and sit down.
A ‘girl’ sits down beside my date. The first thing I notice about her is not the plunging neckline of her long translucent dress but her haircut, which is the kind of haircut you get only after having three kids. She is definitely older than me, a point that is hammered home by her square glasses and squat figure. Beside me sits a girl more typical of the stripper image; young with long blonde hair and an excellent figure under her own translucent dress. For some reason I find myself discussing Townsville with this girl (she’s thinking about going up there to work at Santa Fe for a month). If my date wants a dance then this blonde one’s a winner.
“You want a dance?” Dermot asks me.
His ‘girl’ leans over. “I can do a dance for two.”
The blonde girl gets up and goes to the bar.
“Come on,” says Dermot. “I bet you’ve never had a duel lap dance before.”
“Well then, let’s go. What’s the harm?”
“Alright but this is a very unusual evening.”
We follow the mousy chick into a back room and she makes us sit on a padded bench. As she gets her routine underway it dawns on me. His last girlfriend was in her thirties. I’m in my thirties. He could have picked any of the girls in this place and he chose the one who probably chaperones blue light discos for her kids’ school. I’ve walked straight into this guy’s Oedipus complex and I’ve got this chick’s arse in my face for another twenty minutes.
“Touch her,” says Dermot. “You’re allowed to do that here.”
I am disturbed.
Read about the rest of Nicole’s night right here.