I love to watch naked or near-naked people gyrate on stage, I love to poke my dollar in a bikini string, I love to stare at the flash of gash, a quiver of quim, or a dollop of dick.

I love to watch naked or near-naked people gyrate on stage, I love to poke my dollar in a bikini string, I love to stare at the flash of gash, a quiver of quim, or a dollop of dick. I love to watch naked nipples, and the pulsing spiral of an exposed anus. Yes, in that way I’m normal. 

But I cannot get off on a lap dance. It’s my curse.

No matter what the gender, age, endowment. No matter how hard or light the pressure. No matter if it’s frontward or backward. No matter nothing. Rubbing my stiffened stub from outside my clothes will not give me an orgasm. It may even unstiff the stiffness.

I’m in Guau Guau, a titty bar in Agua Prieta, right over the border from Douglas, Arizona. In one hand is a beer from my 180-peso-a-bucket special. In the other hand is a single dollar bill.

Then there’s Guau Guau, the strip club. You pronounce Guau Guau like WOW WOW in Sonoran Spanish. It means something like BOW WOW! But the girls here are as far from being BOW WOWs as Barack Obama is from being progressive.

Inside the club, on the stage are beautiful girls who give you a kiss when they pick up the dollar you leave.

Yeah, they bug you for lap dances. Walking around after their set, putting their hands on your thigh, asking if you want a private dance. It is a strip club, after all. My friend Tavo is soon off in the back room. He returns with a satisfied smile on his face.

“I’ll buy you one, Mykel,” says Gilberto. “You should do it.”

“No thanks,” I tell him, not going into detail about my personal… er… impairment. “I just like to watch.”

He goes off with one of the more attractive strippers. I keep feeding dollars to the girls on the stage. Each kisses me on the cheek after I slip a bill under an elastic band, near the good part. 

In my 71 years, I must’ve gone to a hundred strip bars…but up ’til now, I’ve never been to one where the strippers kiss the patrons for tipping them. 

The next night, Pamela has gone back to Flagstaff. Ingrid joins our crew for the night. I return to Guau Guau with Gilberto, Tavo, Barichu, and Ingrid. It’s great enough to meet a girl who likes a guy like Barichu. But it’s even greater to meet a girl who likes STRIP CLUBS! This trip I meet two of them! In the 70s, even girls who WORKED in strip clubs didn’t like them. Ah, change is not all negative.

One of Gilberto’s friends gets us in for free. We huddle around the stage, nose-close to the dancers.

Ingrid lays those dollar bills down almost as fast as I do. She gets a flash for each one and a nice peck on the cheek. 

Gilberto brings one of the best strippers, tall, curvy in the special way that Latinas do curves. You know, ass-not-hips. Skin, the color of cinnamon. Breasts like twin Mount Fujis. Makes me want to erupt.

Gilberto speaks to Ingrid in English. “Hey Ingrid,” he says. “You want a lap dance? This one’s the best. I’ll buy you one.”

I laugh.

Ingrid doesn’t.

“Sure,” she says. 

By the time I close my gaping jaw, she and the Chicana walk off to the back. Brown and white, like a peanut butter sandwich made in heaven.

In twenty minutes, Ingrid’s back. Her face glows in the soft light of the club. 

“They were watching me, Mykel,” she says. “All those bodyguards and bouncers. Back there…it’s like an office…with cubicles…she sat on my lap and we were surrounded, these guys…those guys with no necks who work here…they came around to watch…you could see them jiggling themselves…their hands in their pockets.”

“YOU should have charged THEM,” I tell her. 

By this time, another Mexican beauty is on stage. This one darker and more lithe than the first. Like a sexy snake, she slithers full length across the stage… crawling on her arms and legs to the edge. Her petite but proud breasts just touch the wood. She slides right in front of Ingrid and reaches down. 

She grabs both of Ingrid’s arms and pulls her onstage. But our Ingrid isn’t dancing. At least not in the normal sense of the word. She’s lying on her back. The stripper is over her. Rubbing her brown body against the white girl. 

Then the dancer reaches down. She pulls Ingrid’s sweater up, over her head. In the soft light, Ingrid’s breasts, as perky as her personality, sparkle bright and white.

I reach between my legs to make myself more comfortable.

Gently, the dancer takes one, then the other nipple in her mouth. 

Looking at the men in the audience, I can see sympathetic tongue movements on each of them. We’re in this together.

Together we lick those nipples. We lick each and then lick down to a place between them. We lick in a line from breast to navel, back to breast. We lick downward again. We press our collective chins against her individual crotch and keep licking. We’re collectively disappointed when Ingrid keeps her pants on. We’re collectively inspired when she licks back at the woman on top of her. We become Ingrid as she takes those brown mounds into her hands. 

All too soon, it’s over. All too soon, we let go of our breath and applaud our collective appreciation. Ingrid puts her sweater back on and climbs down from the stage.

“Guau Guau!” I say.

She smiles and we all walk out to the car.

“I’m sorry you had to see my breasts,” she says. 

“I’m 70 years old,” I tell her. “I’ve done more than people twice my age would have done if they lived that old. I’ve eaten iranha in Peru, had sex under a Mongolian staircase, been in a threesome with one girl in Thailand, been kidnapped in Albania, but never in my life before has someone said to me I’m sorry you had to see my breasts.”

She smiles.

“Please don’t be sorry,” I tell her. “I sure as shit am not.”

—MYKEL BOARD

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