FICTION | SLEEZE | ETERNAL BATTLE FOR THE SOUL

The Strip

Pleasure has a price here

A photo of a seedy street in the 70s

It’s hard to hear clearly in The Strip, so I lean closer to the barman. I want to ensure he hears me over the loudspeaker, that enemy of casual conversation. “You’re certain Tina’s working tonight?” But I quickly cover up the nervousness with a sip of my beer. Within seconds of my question, he looks up from the glass he’s cleaning and scowls. Was that a mistake? Have I stepped over some line? I recoil, a thick, smoky smell invades my lungs as I hold my breath. In between our stand-off, a trio of performers appears on stage. They move sensually out, removing lingerie in time to a song.

“You could have a steam train,

if you’d just lay down your tracks,”

That 10-year-old tune is the only thing bridging the atmosphere in my seat. I should do something, “Sorry, I mean, Belladonna.” Now it hits me. How could I have forgotten the rule here? “Please refrain from using the performers’ real names.” Patrons are discouraged from calling them strippers, too; they’re performers or artists, so the main sign informs us. By elevating what is going on here, doesn’t it seem to scrub the sleaziness away? Give it a kind of high-brow vibe. Only artists work on stage; artists who use their bodies to paint their masterpieces. The…