Down the Rabbit Hole

My usual Saturday routine was in full swing. I slept in. I parked the TV on an AFL game and left it in the background. I ate a late lunch and I surfed a lot, of the internet kind. Then the phone rang and it was M suggesting a dinner and a movie. M's cool. I don't socialise with him very often but it's always a pleasure to chat to an intelligent human being, and sensing something is on his mind, I accept the invitation knowing I have the task of cheering a friend up.

M takes me to Lawry's which is for him comfort food. Inside, the bar has wood-panelling, high ceiling, and a suit of armour stands in front of an ornately framed, floor to ceiling mirror. The dining room was lit by chandeliers. We are shown to a comfortable booth by waiter in gold thread waistcoat who spoke polite, textbook English. Lawry's have been "Celebrating special occasions since 1938".

The salad was prepared on a silver cart that was wheeled to our table. Once all the main salad pieces were placed into a large stainless steel bowl sitting in a larger bowl filled with ice, the waiter spun the steel bowl then poured the dressing from high above his head. Salad was tossed and served with a chilled fork. Showmanship from a by-gone era. For dinner I had a rack of lamb which almost melted like butter, and M had chosen Surf and Turf. We rounded off our meals with coffee and port.

When dinner was over we retire to the bar. M lights up his signature cigar. In the faint haze of smoke and slowly sipped scotch we chat about life, people and of course, love. No matter who we are or where we are in the world, love is the one thing we are all hurt by.

Time came for us to leave the restaurant for the good people at Lawry's had kept the bar open only for us. We let them and the old world go and left in search of a night cap.

Only a few steps later we find The Queens. Posters at the door indicate this is a place that regularly host live rock bands. A girl in a tight demin skirt, tank top and heels stands near the door chatting loudly on her mobile. No doubt we'd get a drink here. There is only a handful of customers so we get seats and drinks promptly. The band is taking a break so the DJ is at the helm. The floor-lit dance floor is empty but the music plays as if it was full. The mirror ball and swirling spotlights shine like the inside of a school dance hall. When the band returns to the stage they play without hesitation. They have three back up singers who are also dancers. Or more accurately, dancers who also hold mikes and think they are singers. It's mostly R&B, hip hop and pop. Songs that pump up a party of students. Surprisingly the band's energy level is not been deterred by thin crowd. M and I watched the slender, almost pre-pubescent dancers gyrate, whipping their long black hair back and forth and push their flat abdomens out at us, mocking us. The lead singer even jumps onto the bar top telling us to wave our hands in the air, or something closely mimicking that effect. I was impressed. These guys were working hard for their pay checks.

When time came for the band and back up singers/dancers to take another break, DJ takes over and plays the same kind of hip hop tunes and dance floor fillers. Though at no point do any of the 20 people in the audience take preference of the dancer floor over their seats. After a quick break where we all make for the bathroom, the band mixes it up in a strange playlist of Beyonce, Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake followed by Bananarama and Tom Jones.

The girls put on a show. A stripper pole is installed atop the bar and each girl takes her turn with the pole. Minus the stripping. It was hard to take your eyes off. I found one girl to be more of a dancer than stripper, as she had more athletic moves than the other two who simply shook their bodies around the pole. And of course I am qualified to state this as I am both a veteran of dancing and stripping and judgement-laying. I am intrigued by this kind of display in this supposed respectable live band venue. I can't deny the presence of the live band, nor the style of music they played, yet this club is dangerously tipping the scale of acceptable sleaze for a rock joint.

During the next band break, the first lone male dancer of the night begins his routine on the floor. I breathe a small sigh of relief as the issue of Balanced Scales in the 21st Century deserved urgent addressing. He was no doubt well-built, with a washboard for a stomach but he didn't do very much for me personally. It was the attire. Baggy jeans with a black leather waistcoat (?), bare chest and a black arm band. He jumped around for a minute impressing least of all me then suddenly throws his waistcoat by the wayside and suddenly again his jeans were off too! Whipped in a flash the velcro seams of his stripper jeans flew apart and he was down to a pair of god-awful black leather briefs with an arrangement of silver chain links on it that nestled in the middle looking like a giant silver-backed spider was gobbling up his package.

Part of his performance included placing a chair in the middle of the dance floor, having one of the girl dancers in the chair and doing a polite little stripper dance in front of her. He then gets her up on her feet, partners with her in a wiggle before the finale of picking her up, she lying back in his arms, her arms and legs stretched out and he spinning with her in that horizontal position a number of times. It was pretty impressive considering entry to this show/club was free. We had no idea.

Once he and the audience of 20 got their breaths back, sweaty stripper man moves towards the closest girl in the audience. She turns out to be twice his size and completely reaction-less to his outstretched hand. Her companion, a middle aged man in a surfer shirt and happily sozzled since M and I walked in, spiritedly encouraged her. She stands, and is lead like a limp rag to the disco floor, arms half up in a very surrenderous posture.

He begins performing new stripper moves of the night. As she stands either in a drunken daze or wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole, he crouches to her feet and pretends to run his hands from her legs up to sides of her torso, ending up pressing rather close to the entire length of her body. A few more up and down motion he gets her in the seat that's still on the floor. Instead of lying back and having fun with the moment she sits slightly rigid. He stands astride her and grabs her hands in his and guides them to his back, butt, legs and back again.

M and I are laughing our arses off. But in a brief moment of guilt and reflection, I turn to M and say, "I wonder if it had been me, would I have been brave enough to do it?" M shrugs and I turn back to the show, only to see stripper man climb over sofas and offer his hand to me in the dark, where I'd been sitting with M. Up close, I notice stripper man is just a smidgen shorter than me. Do I accept?