My English bulldog, Rosie, has an extraordinary tongue. When I say that she has an extraordinary tongue, I mean that it’s dramatically too long for her snout. When she’s sitting, her tongue peeks out between her teeth and lips like a piece of red ribbon. When she runs, her tongue flops in the wind, bouncing from her ear to the ground, then back again, flapping beside her head like a struggling kite. And, when she sleeps, her tongue drops so far out the side of her mouth that I’m tempted to roll it back up like a scroll.
But, Rosie’s extraordinary tongue isn’t wasted excess – no, she uses it to its maximum potential. Sure, most dogs will lick a child or their own paw; however, Rosie takes licking to the next level, void of boundaries, licking with no discretion toward taste, texture, or sanitation – dirt, your hair, tree bark, or carpeting, Rosie will lick it.
I’m especially amused by Rosie’s love to lick, as I, too, have always proved tempted to lick just about anything on a dare or for a laugh. In fact, I’m even inclined every so often to lick Rosie when she licks me, to her confusion, my wife’s disgust, and my daughter’s entertainment. Typically, though, my tongue doesn’t get me in trouble beyond a scolding by my wife for taking sick humor too far, like licking the oil off of our lawnmower’s dipstick, then chasing her for a petroleum-based kiss. Rosie, on the other hand, is constantly in trouble for licking what she shouldn’t be licking, with us wanting to keep her safe and healthy. “Rosie, no lick!” you often hear around our home.
Now, on the subject of doing what one shouldn’t do, I’m sure gentlemen’s clubs are known for getting guys in trouble. But, I’ve never had enough experience with them to know what kind of trouble they bring, so when I find myself here tonight, in a gentlemen’s club, it’s thought provoking but seemingly harmless, looking like a typical lounge, but with exotic dancers on the stage. My wife knows I’m here, and I’m with less-than-rowdy friends, so there’s no trouble here for me.
As I listen to the less-than-popular music played by the cliché, gravel-voiced DJ, noting the thin cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke that filters the dim light, I’m torn by the practice of gentlemen’s clubs, where men objectify women, where the women hustle men, and where everyone uses everyone in a bleak distortion of a market economy. Yet, I confess that it’s hard not to be engaged by mingling with twenty-five disrobed, gorgeous women, in a setting where I presume that my disability is less of a factor than in many situations – as long as I’m paying, I suppose that the dancers are playing.
In the context of my reservations, I’m sitting away from the action a bit, watching from a distance as a young lady, announced as Taylor, dances on the stage, noticeably staying away from the brass pole like the previous dancers, preferring to dance closer to the guys surrounding the stage.
I’ve never really had a “type” when it comes to women, preferring to address people on an individual level. But, if I had a type, Taylor is it, with long black hair, curvaceous hips, dark eyes, and funky librarian glasses – if it’s possible in the circumstance, she looked both sexy and smart. That’s my type, indeed – sexy and smart.
I pull a five bill out of my wallet, and roll up to the low-slung counter surrounding the stage. I’ve been studying the protocol, and by placing cash on the counter, the dancer comes over and focuses her attention on you for a few moments – that is, the cash on the counter is like turning on the light for a stewardess on an airplane.
And, here comes Taylor.
“I’m Taylor,” she says, standing eight-feet tall on the stage in front of me, her four-inch black heals almost at my eye level.
“I know,” I say with a wink, unsure as to what gesture to make.
“Hold on, I’ll come down to you,” she says, noting that I’m sitting back from the counter a bit, as I didn’t want to bump my knees on its edge.
She climbs down, and goes to straddle my knees, but stops, and I look from her chest to her eyes to gauge why she stopped?
“You’re married,” she says, pointing at my left hand, where my thick, white-gold wedding band shines.
“Of course,” I say.
It strikes me that if I were in a bar, trying to pick her up, I can imagine my wedding ring being an alarm bell. But, this is a gentlemen’s club, where I fathom a lot of the men are married, where there’s some sort of distinction between entertainment and intent. What’s the shocker that I’m married and wearing a wedding ring?
“Why wouldn’t I be married?” I ask.
“Because you look so young,” she replies.
“I’m thirty four, soon to be thirty-five,” I say.
“You don’t look older than twenty-four,” she says.
“Well, I’m thirty-four,” I say.
“How old is he?” she asks my friend who just pulled up a chair next to me.
“How should I know?” he says. “I’m thirty one, and he’s older than me.“
“Married, huh,” she says, turning back to me, straddling my knees, pulling my face into her cleavage.
My nose press against her chest bone, and she smells of heavy perfume, like a chain-smoking, alcoholic real-estate agent that I once had who actually sprayed her clothes with perfume out of the type of bottle that’s used to mist house plants before stepping out of her Cadillac for appointments. I wonder how Taylor’s perfume tastes? Oh, man, wouldn’t it be funny to lick her right now, with the flat of my tongue, like licking Rosie or the oil off of a dipstick, purely to evoke a reaction? But, is it wrong to lick an exotic dancer – are there boundaries, and is licking going too far? Alright, now I’m entirely compelled to lick her, just to see the consequences – it’s a self dare that I can’t pass up.
Oh man, she just pulled away, and is climbing back on stage.
I roll back to the table where my friends are sitting, and take a sip of my soda.
“What would happen if I licked a dancer,” I ask my buddy.
“Tell me you didn’t lick her,” my buddy says.
“What would happen if I did?” I ask.
“Mark, do not lick the dancers,” he says.
“So, licking a dancer is bad?” I ask.
“Look, no matter what the dancer says, no matter what the dancer does, do not lick the dancer,” he says, looking me in the eyes like my wife does when she warns me to behave. “You’re going to get us kicked out of here.”
“Fine, man, I was just wondering,” I say, going back to drinking my soda and watching from a distance, knowing how Rosie feels, always getting in trouble with her good-natured tongue.