 Lap-dancing clubs: a place for nice girls from former communist-bloc
countries who are trying to get a few quid together in a way that's a
lot quicker than waitressing and safer than street-walking. Or are they
just brothels? John Masterson and Donal Lynch did a few laps.
I asked a few people at random what they thought of lap-dancing clubs
and, specifically, did they assume that the women working there were
all, or most of them, available for sex. So there it is. The girls who
are working in these clubs and telling their families they are saving up
for medical school are, in fact, prostitutes. Or are they? Is this just
another urban myth that no one has ever bothered to check out? Maybe
they are just nice girls from the former communist bloc who are trying
to get a few quid together in a way that's a lot quicker than
waitressing and safer than street-walking? And if not, well, who cares?
I have long felt prostitution should be legal, and am certain it holds a
lot more marriages together than does Viagra.
A colleague and I prepared ourselves for a night of lap dancing, in
search of something more. I rang him from the hole in the wall and
naively asked would €200 be enough. I think you might need a lot more,
he told me. I got another two, packed enough plastic to buy a small car
and headed to work.
And so into the breach. I must have walked passed Lapellos on Dame
Street in Dublin a thousand times and never noticed it. The place was
full mostly of twenty-and thirty-somethingmen in good form.
Having passed the security cordon and paid our €20 we were into a room
which looked like any other night club, except for the absence of
courting couples. As we began our wine - which, I think, was €8 a glass
- we were rapidly surrounded by Czech beauties with perfect English and
teeth. They were charming, friendly and all wearing dresses that would
not be difficult to remove. The gorgeous creature who decided that I was
the man for her then presented me with a little brochure which turned
out to be the rules of the house and a menu, sorry, price list.
The rules of the house were up in neon - no touching, no propositioning
etc. We batted the breeze and I explored the options. She'd dance for me
for three minutes for €30. And then came the big one - I could have an
hour of her special attention in a VIP room for €600. The maths were
easy. This woman cost €10 a minute and I don't know any women who drink
gin and tonic that fast. For €600, I had a weekend in Prague with my
loved one, saw as many Czech beauties as I could cope with, and retired
happily with the Irish one each night.
But I was on a mission. The €600 version must be where all the good
stuff happened. So I probed gently and hit brick wall after brick wall.
There were no extras on offer. Ah come on, I thought, don't play me for
a fool. I discreetly mentioned maybe a blow job and I may as well have
said "There's Osama Bin Laden" in the Tube. I decided to be polite and
settle for the €30 sampler.
I paid out my money at the till with all the frisson of booking my taxi
earlier. 'Complicated Foreign Name' led me by the hand to an adjoining
room. I had decided to be 'John', because I felt like one. Business was
booming and we had to queue while watching five or six guys with legs
akimbo and wide smiles being danced to, for and on by perfect bodies in
various stages of undress while a security man with earpieces and
electronic devices looked on, bored.
There was so much security in this place that I began to wonder if
George Bush and Bono were having a private meeting in a back room.
A few minutes later, I was led to my place on the couch and had my legs
eased apart with dental efficiency and then had three minutes of
striptease punctuated by occasional buttocks rubbing up and down my
fully-clothed crotch. Breasts whistled past my face only millimetres
away, and I kept thinking that even Tiger Woods misses from that range
now and again. But not 'Complicated Foreign Name'.
This was the finest specimen of twenty-something body that I had see up
close since I was, well, twenty-something. She put legs in positions I
have seen only from Olympic gymnasts. No ugly suntan marks on her mostly
naked body. Or track marks. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh. Hair from
the L'Oreal ad. And I was definitely as sexually excited as my last
visit to the dentist. Someone, somewhere should be giving this woman
babies and stretch marks.
Around me were five or six other guys getting the same treatment, all
under the watchful eye of 'Earpiece Gorilla'. My hand involuntarily
touched her thigh and was firmly put back in its place. Rules are rules.
And then, my three minutes were over and she led me back to my wine and
began the €600 pitch again.
Like most men, I cannot remember spending €600 on a woman and not having
sex. Six hundred euros is plane ticket, birthday or Christmas territory
and appreciation is always shown appropriately. Not that the quality of
the sex has anything to do with the size of the present. We all know it
is the thought that counts - the thought to max out your credit card. So
I wasn't going to shell out €600 for a guarantee of no sex.
Lest we get carried away, I was on a research mission. People close to
me had asked what I would do when suddenly handed the condom in some
private room. I'd replied that I knew just how much 'research' would be
tolerated, when the line had been overstepped, and the argument that I
took no pleasure in it would not hold water. I would find my way out if
I had to - and the way things had been going this was not going to be a
problem.
So off we went to Eden in search of looser women. Again past George
Bush's minders, and paid our entrance of €10. Good, I thought, half the
entrance fee - this might be the place. Wine and a lager brought change
from a tenner and were served by a barmaid wearing tight-fitting jeans.
Being attractive, it didn't take long for me to pull - and a beautiful
Indian girl introduced herself. We had the same chat as the last one,
except that she didn't hate Ireland. The Czechs were in spitting
distance of target money and going home in a few weeks. So I thought I
should contribute to this woman's fare home too. I paid my money and she
got her token, which I assume she cashed in at the end of the night. And
I was led off by Bush's advance party to a locked room marked 'VIP'.
This, I was sure, was it. He unlocked the door, showed us into a
pleasant room with couches and a small bar. And locked the door. Behind
him. And took up position on his chair. If he was a picture, I could
have turned him to the wall. I had wondered what would happen if I got
aroused in this situation. Funny how you don't when a security man is
sitting five feet away.
The business was soon done. It was about as arousing as a carwash and it
was apparent that you had more chance of copping a feel off the nurse
after a bypass than you had here, and the urban myth theory about lap
dancing was gaining my head. It was preferable to the 'couldn't score in
a brothel' theory.
Downstairs, she asked me to buy her a cocktail and I thought something
was developing. I shelled out €14 for some pretty drink that she asked
the bar staff to put no alcohol in, and as soon as it arrived, she
scarpered to someone who must have looked like they had deeper pockets,
because he wasn't more attractive.
My colleague and I decided one more try was called for. Thus far, it had
had all the buzz of drinking non-alcoholic wine, so we headed for Leeson
Street, where one surely has to be able to purchase sin in all its
varieties. We headed into Angels, where all the routine was the same, so
I won't bore you. I fell into conversation with a nice northern man
having the time of his life who told me not to spend 40 because you get
just as much for 20.
But I took his advice. I ordered my third glass of wine. This was for a
not-extortionate price, so something had changed in Leeson Street since
my late-night era. I shelled out my €20 on a beautiful Hungarian girl.
If she had been sitting beside me fully clothed in Bewley's, I would
have fancied the pants off her. After my €20 sampler, we began the
negotiation and she told me that for €460 we could have a private room,
a bottle of champagne and that she'd leave me fully satisfied. Bingo, I
thought, but she was a little elusive on what "fully satisfied" meant.
But then, she was a lady. She reminded me of those bad hotel advert
scripts that promise to attend to your every need.
She led me by the hand and, with cash depleted, I paid by credit card,
noting that the slip said something very discreet that would absolutely
fool any Miss Jones in the expenses department or normal, unsuspecting
wife.
And in we went to a plush room with black leather couches.
Champagne (far from the best, but not plonk) was proffered and we were
left to our devices. I poured and she complimented me on my gentlemanly
behaviour. And we began to chat like a first date. She was a good
conversationalist, and, in general, good company and charming.
She asked me lots about myself, knowing well that most people love
talking about themselves, even at €10 a minute. She told me she loved
sex but hadn't had any for a few months, and her last Irish lover wasn't
up to much. She wasn't too impressed with Ireland, but liked the gym
where she keeps her body looking as good as the real love of my life.
The Porsche, that is.
Then our private room was suddenly peopled by another couple who bumped
and ground in the all-too-familiar manner - ie, no touching. I commented
on this and she pointed to all the cameras watching everything.
Next, came a guy with two girls and he didn't look like he had the guts
of a grand to shell out but they gave him the lesbian act he paid for,
which was, in reality, fairly tame. It caught my attention, as this was
a first for me. My companion asked would I like another girl with her
but I declined before my credit card did.
So we chatted at €10 a minute and then, almost as an afterthought, she
did the dance, buttock rub and breast swish routine with an athleticism
that I suspect most working girls do not possess. I tried the
experimental touch for research and was quickly pointed to the cameras
and told she didn't want to lose her job - and if spotted, I would be
thrown out. I tried all the lines of 'would she meet me elsewhere?' to
no avail and then she commented that for all she knew, I might be a
policeman.
All three places were run like military operations, as if they were
determined that no one - no male, at any rate - is going to get caught
with his pants down. We resumed the chat, which was altogether more
enjoyable, and then a light bulb went on in her head and she made a play
for another hour but that was a bit rich for this boy.
I headed into the night some €700 lighter and facing the appalling
prospect of giving the lap-dancing industry a clean bill of health.
A s I waited for a taxi, a genuine lady of the night offered me straight
sex for €100. "Indoors," she added, which I thought was a nice touch.
And it occurred to me that if I was really that way inclined I could
have had it seven times for the same money. In one night.
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