The strip joint was my brother’s idea. Four years my senior and a Royal Military College grad, George could be persuasive. Besides, I was curious. It was 1971. That year, the Ontario government decided to allow full nudity in certain establishments. In late August, Tracy Starr’s opened its doors in London to a standing-room-only crowd of one hundred and seventy-five patrons. Each had paid $2.50 to enjoy one and a half hours of “continuous stripping.” My brother, his wife, my husband and I took in the spectacle some weeks later. Two-thirds of the raked seats in the auditorium were empty.
Six strippers each danced for ten or fifteen minutes. I remember two.
Millie Small’s “My Boy Lollipop” blared out over the audience and ricocheted off the vacant seats. From stage right , a woman who looked thirty-five but might have been twenty-three, pranced into view. Perhaps she galloped. Or trotted. Millie did insist that her boyfriend made her heart go “giddy up.” For a certainty, she was not dancing. Her costume was as childish as the performance—a cotton tutu-like skirt decorated with large, bright dots and, a matching blouse with puffed cap-sleeves and a deeply scooped neckline. A mini-zipper in the front kept her substantial breasts from tumbling out. Last, she carried a giant cardboard sucker with an exaggerated swirl pattern printed on it. From time to time she licked the painted paper.
Scars and home-inked tattoos adorned her body. Her midriff jiggled. During her routine, she directed her gaze to a point somewhere above and beyond the topmost row of seats.
As mentioned, each performance lasted at least ten minutes. “My Boy Lollipop” is a two-minute song. After the second repetition, and Lollipop’s tedious movements, my brother began to chortle. Loudly. The manager approached him. Asked him to be respectful. George tried to suppress his amusement—unsuccessfully. The manager’s second visit made it clear that we would be ejected if my brother didn’t control his response. George could not look at the stage without laughing. So, he stared at his feet and blocked out the music by humming God Save the Queen.
I suppose Lollipop girl stripped. Now that I think of it, it must have been some feat to take off her clothes while holding an over-sized fake candy on the end of a stick. But, I was too embarrassed by my brother’s behaviour to take in the rest of the performance. I too was contemplating the floor. However, just before I looked down, two men seated a few rows in front of us turned around to see what the fuss was about. Dear heaven above, one of them was my Educational Philosophy teacher. What was he doing there? Perhaps, like me, it was his first time. However, observing later his evident relish of the entertainment, I suspected not. I noted that he was as incompetent in his chosen profession as Lollipop was in hers. Professor Negligence’s introductory class lasted fewer than five minutes. He addressed an amphitheatre of more than one hundred students, “Everything you need to know is in the text. Choose a topic from one of the chapters. Write a two thousand word essay. Submit it before the end of term. If you have any questions, make an appointment with my secretary.” What a shame that Lollipop’s performance wasn’t as succinct.
The management saved the best for last. The music began—soft, soulful, sensual. A Blue Goddess materialized in the centre of the stage—her great black height enveloped in a navy catsuit. A sinuous zipper ran from the dip in the front of her neck to just below the navel. She moved only a little. But oh, what movements. Hips swayed. Shoulders rolled. Her entire body undulated with the passionate rhythms. Erotic, mesmerizing, seductive. But never obscene. She played with the zipper. Down, then up. Down a little further. Then up. Down further still. Up, but not quite so far. Tantalizing. Oozing self-confidence, she looked at the audience directly, but not invitingly. Her gaze announced, “I am my own woman. You can look but you can not touch. I love that I can move like this. I love what I do.”
The Blue Goddess never discarded her leotard. The zipper opened only to that spot just below the navel. The lights went out. The dancer vanished. The show was over.
My curiosity had been satisfied. A knowing about myself had been reinforced. Years prior to the strip club adventure, a friend gave me an issue of Playgirl magazine. A birthday joke. I perused the glossy images of naked men—penises flaccid or firm. None excited me. But, the bare feet did. As long as I can remember, I have loved the soles of my unclad feet in contact with the earth. Tar-sticky pavement, morning-dewed grass, blistering white sand, pebbly shores, and kelp-crusted rocks. My soles united me to the earth and the earth to myself. Long ago, a marriage counsellor asked me what I most disliked about my husband. “He wears socks,” I blurted out. Wow! Where had that come from? The male counsellor decoded my response, “You mean he doesn’t uncover his soul?” Yes, that’s exactly what I meant.
For me, bare feet were alluring, blatant nudity was not. I’m the kind of person who loves shadows. I look beyond the thing to the shape it casts. Then hypothesize about the thing itself. I love mysteries. The Blue Goddess left something hidden, something to be imagined, something to look forward to. I never perused another Playgirl magazine. I never visited another strip club. There was no need. I had my answers.