Column:

Friesen and Gonzo journalism at Club Vogue

By Dan Friesen

Published Nov. 6, 2007

Children, your intrepid columnist made a long overdue pilgrimage this weekend. Although I am admittedly a devotee and theorist of all things pornographic, until this week I had not been to a titty bar since my 18th birthday. The thrill of legal nudity was quite alluring, but it turned out reality didn't quite match my fantasy of what the strip club could be.

On my birthday, my friends and I all went out to Club Vogue. It turned out that my friend Micah knew a gal named Candy who danced there, and as such, I got an absurdly long and painful birthday present from her. I was pulled up onto the stage, whereupon she told me to give her my belt and put my hands on the pole. Not one to be difficult, I obliged, knowing full well that some spanking was about to go down. I thought the spanking would just be playful and light, but Candy seemed to have other ideas.

The first blow hurt a bit, but I was drunk, so I went ahead and played along. By the third hit, the novelty had worn off, and I took my hands off the pole in preparation to depart the stage. But, again, Candy seemed to have other plans. She told me to get on my hands and knees, and again, not wanting be labeled a "difficult strip club patron," I obliged. She then put the belt around my neck and rode me around the stage like a pony. I was having a good time until I glanced around the room and saw nothing but a sea of old men who were far more excited than I — one was even drooling — although I was the one on stage.

I decided it was time to give it another shot. There's nothing wrong with going out and seeing some titties, but I draw the line at a lap dance. What kind of a creep can enjoy giving some stripper $50 to grind up and down their junk and not be at all unnerved by the situation? She's not going to have sex with you, yet she dry humps you to the point at which, at least in my book, the sexing is about to begin.

Freak out!

But, as a journalist, I had to see firsthand what all those creeps were in it for, so I bought one. I settled in on the couch that was used for the "private" dances. After some preliminary grinding, my dancer explained the club's policy on touching: "You can use your hands but not your mouth." I couldn't take it and had to walk away, laughing. I ask you, what kind of strip club doesn't let you use your mouth?

The rest of my night was spent talking to an amazingly insightful and charming young lady named Foxxxy. We covered everything from the much requested "milk dance" to the Mayan calendar to why there were three x's in her name.

The night progressed, with our conversation wandering like some half drunk Taoist, breaking every time the asshole disc jockey gave the call alerting her that she was due on stage next and picking back up when she came out of the backstage doors. I had a great time talking to her, and by the end of the night, she had given me her number and asked me to call her. But I just can't shake the feeling that our interaction might not be so good in the real world, when I'm not drunk and she's not getting paid to talk to me.

Out of all the girls, she was the hottest, but I failed to get her to my crib to do that night thang, which is probably for the best.

df5d2@mizzou.edu