By Michael Kaczmarczyk

*The Library Strip Club, Foreclosed © Britannie Bond, 2016*

The road was long and I was weary when I noticed the neon lights. I don’t typically go for that sort of thing, but the car seemed to pull itself into the lot, and I wasn’t one to resist the impulses of a Jeep Wrangler. I was somewhere near the Michigan, Indiana border; I had been driving for something like 13 hours. I was on my way to South Indiana, around Evansville, in search of my second cousin, who had lost himself on a bad peyote trip, which was unusual for December, because my cousin loved the beach and thought The North Face was a poor excuse for a clothing company that fed off the ignorance of it’s misinformed, yet physically active customer base. Once the car was parked, I got out and stood in front of the club. There were cowboy boots with lipstick stains on the sign.

The stripper's name was Candice Candy Corn, which I thought was ironic, given that Candy Corn is easily the least sensual candy and Candice Dupree has only made 15% of three point shots throughout the course of her career. Good ball player…bad long shot. Candice Candy Corn was redheaded and very voluptuous. She had a manufactured southern accent that made me think of childhood and railroad tracks and Dolly Parton. She asked me if I wanted a dance. I immediately stood up and took her by the waist. I grabbed her hand and began a slow and steady waltz.

It made her laugh.

I knew it would.

After I finished, she slapped my chest affectionately and told me I was smooth and I grinned. I tipped her a ten, and asked her what time she got off. She grinned.

“Meet you out front ‘round 11:30?”

I said alright and headed for the door. I needed a three-piece suit and a rubber, because it’s important to wear layers when taking a nice girl out on the town. I also needed a haircut, a shave, flowers, cologne, gasoline, a nap, and her father’s blessing…

That’s bullshit.

I didn’t get any of those things. I never went to see her later. My cousin doesn’t do peyote, and I’ve never been to Michigan or Indiana. I don’t even drive that much anymore; there is no need to own a car in New York.

I went to a strip club once, but I just stood out front, and never went in.

The colors made my stomach hurt, and the prospect of the whole thing gave me a headache.

I like the idea of waltzing with a stripper who asks me if I want a lap dance though.

I don’t mind lying, because the truth is boring.

I find the best stories about people losing their virginity come from virgins who make up extravagant, passionate stories about their first sexual experience.

Losing your virginity is awkward and lame, and it’s nothing how the pornos make it out to be. I think it’s probably cause of the rubbers. They make it weird. The guys in pornos never wear rubbers. It seems cooler that way, I guess. It’s like chopping the sleeves off of a prep school uniform, or something. There’s something edgy about it.

I think it’s funny that stories of sex have the potential to be better than actual sex. Horny adolescent teenagers are just chasing a fantasy that will never be fulfilled. Real sex is pretty great too, and it’s not like we settle for anything in the end.

But every once in a while it’s nice to fantasize about the voluptuous red head stripper, who let me take her out after her shift, and giggles when I dance with her.

I love you, Candice Candy Corn.