City named Austin: good. Stripper named Austin: not so good.
So Olivia…
I think we get it. You love Austin. Guess what? So does everyone who’s been there. That’s what Austin does. Austin is the free oasis standing in the corporate oil desert that is Texas. Most of the props should go to that fine round ass I like to call the University of Texas at Austin. It’s one of the biggest campuses in America and happens to create some of the wackiest people that fill those Travis County census brochures. It’s the only place in Texas where people can wear a thrift store homeless jacket and earn a six-figure salary. Everywhere else, they’re actually homeless. However, I heed you fair warning about the name Austin. City named Austin: good. Stripper named Austin: not so good.
There is a special corollary that exists with women and names that you may not know about. But every guy knows about it. And guys won’t tell women about it because they don’t want to hurt their feelings. And they don’t want you to know that they are shallow. And they don’t want you to know that they might be judging you. And they don’t want you to know that they have silly rules that almost always work. But then again women do the same damn thing. So maybe sharing this rule wouldn’t end our societal armistice. So, the corollary goes like this: If a woman has a boy’s name, she’s probably ridiculously hot. So the names Randy, Bobby, Sammy, and the like, when given to a woman, somehow makes that same woman register off the boner scale. I don’t know how it happens. Somehow, there is just some Jedi force existing out there in the interstellar universe making any female with a male name into a 24/7 centerfold. That’s just how the world works. And the name Austin? I think it counts.
5 dollar covers are the cheapest you can get, but 15 are the norm nowadays. So after you pay your way into a strip club, you scan through neon darkness for a place to sit. There’s the bar on the right and a few stages straight ahead of you. The tables and chairs are cascading like a daisy from the chromed metal pistil. Which currently occupies a person named Daisy. How ironic. You don’t want to be consumed by the rave of nipples and crotch flailing in front of already occupied desperate eyes. So you sit in the back. A waitress comes over and asks you for your drink. You’re here to feel male, so it’s an order of whiskey on the rocks. Her pen scribbles as you immediately regret your words. You hate whiskey. You hate whiskey even more if it’s just whiskey. But ordering a cosmo isn’t protocol. You’re at a strip club. Such a thing isn’t done.
The boom of White Snake over the speakers seems to gyrate the hips of Daisy but not your imagination. Daisy’s almost most done. Her crawl across the stage is dual purpose. She shows off her goods while her paws grasp the night’s paycheck. Segregated claps are followed with clinking of chilled glasses. The DJ scratches on Pussycat Dolls. How appropriate. And the lights get even lower. And God shouts from the sky.
“Welcome to the stage, the lady named after the city everyone loves… Austin!”
Wow. Who knew that this cowgirl was an eye rollercoaster. Her hips. Her lips. Her curves. You wonder why she’s stripping. She’s too damn pretty. Any job in the world was hers. She could just smile her way to the top. And everyone agrees with their stone eyes. Their perverted smirks. Their ill-postured backs. Her boots come off. Then her hat. As the bass bounces, so does her ass. Then pieces of flannel dress the stage but not herself. You become everyone else. Anticipating the goods to come out. Anticipating your wonders about color. Shape. Size. You’re in a trance. She does her job well.
But your trance breaks. You wonder if you’re the only one that notices. It turns out you’re the only one who cares. She is beautiful. She is a dream. But she is a nightmare. Tracks don’t lie. Across her arm. In between her toes. Maybe her lipstick is covering a sore. You know why she strips. The green confetti stage is more than her paycheck. It’s her habit. You swallow your liquid burn. Your eyes tear. Some of it from the alcohol. Some of it for her. You leave your tip and your chair. As you reenter the night, you feel heated. Not from her eroticism, but from your guilt. Not because you did anything wrong. She’s beautiful. She’s a goddess in your eyes. It’s because of that beauty. Her beauty shames. She is so beautiful that her guilt became your guilt. It’s unfair that you don’t have the drugs to get rid of it. She does. You want it to stay that way.
Sometimes a stripper named Austin isn’t worth it.
-Not Olivia
