“Why are we as a society so conditioned to think wearing a bra means class or is the appropriate thing to do? What is the problem with seeing nipples and/or saggy breasts?” -Jen Maulle
As I cross over into the late-forties my mentality has drastically changed. Just like estrogen levels drop, heavy boobs sag, so does the amount of fux I have to give about what is socially acceptable.
Admittedly, it took a few moments to settle into my rare occasion exposure. I tugged at my straps trying to downsize the spillage. Then the worst possible thing happened. One of the straps came unhinged. Thankfully I keep a small emergency kit in my handbag equipped with tiny safety pins—the little ones that are attached to the extra buttons that come with new blouses. I had to have my date work magic to MacGyver it securely into place. And because it was actually a bodysuit, it eventually became unpinned again.
That’s when I grabbed my girlfriend whom we met there along with her co-worker un-date, I made what should have felt like the “walk of shame” to go to the ladies room. I should mention our party was seated very close to the stage where the tag team of dancers were getting butt-naked throughout their sets. By time I got up to walk to the ladies room, loose top and all, I entered the same ladies room the dancers enter to then head through another open door to their dressing room. I had zero shame—majority of the women coming in and out were topless and even bottomless as Sunday Brunch Mimosas. I had to wait for an open stall before I could get inside to unsnap my suit before repining it securely for the night. I was still happy I chose to wear the top. However, I was even happier I chose the extremely high-waist, bell-bottom, Free People jeans; flattering I might add. It meant my bodysuit wouldn’t give-way to the fact that it was no longer snapped at my crotch.
I went back to enjoy a night filled with loud trap music, unique gyrating performances, fantastic Hookah, copious shots amidst my signature top shelf and chaser, voyeurism that was encouraged and monetarily rewarded at times, my short stack of dollar bills, with great conversation and company to boot. And since I’m being transparent about my wardrobe malfunction I may as well admit 1) ‘twas my first time at a strip club; 2) I got an unsolicited lap dance from the shot girl who was not our cocktail waitress; and 3) I gave all my dollars to the brown skin girls. Yes, “colorism” drove whom I decided to toss dollars on. I digress. I know “Colored Girls” from college that started commuting to Atlanta from Alabama to earn money by stripping when-refund-checks-weren’t-enough-to-live-and-splurge-off. I never judged them. I applauded their bravery to live life out loud and on their own terms.
I’ve listened to countless stories from guy friends who were regulars at those same strip clubs (adult entertainment for the politically correct). I was always curious and intrigued. So fast forward to my late forties and I finally made my way into one of the many popular clubs in a city known for some of the best strip clubs in the Dirty South.
The fact that I was going out to an adult entertainment spot with a mixed crowd of men and women meant I would possibly have on more clothes than most of the women. While the men were coming to see the women with the least amount of clothing on. It was a no-bra-brainer, in support of the girls.
