"The wonders of nature"

]It's been kind of a sad day in town here. We are losing another of our aged, historic buildings.

It's not that the place has been kept up over the years, because it has not. In fact, it's been in danger of demolishing itself for years. The owners over the last few decades lacked either the money to keep the old building in good repair or the inclination to do so. For many years, it was a hotel. One of the better hotels in town. In the time I've been living here (about 25 years), it has only been a bar, with a hotel--but it was already ramshackle.

So I never got to see it in its prime. I think it once had a lounge downstairs. I know it had a beautiful bar, where people could go to relax and have a good time. Art Deco designs on the walls were still there by the time I got to town, but a lot of the money in town had left with the closing of the mines, and the building was feeling its age. It became primarily a bar, one that saw its best business when the rodeo was in town or during the entire run of firearm deer season.

That's because it had dancers. Go-go dancers, because they would put on some rock music and go-go up on stage. By the time their act was done, all or nearly all of their clothing (which wasn't much to begin with) would be on the stage or on hooks along the side. After that, they would make the grand tour of the lounge, visiting the fans who admired their dancing, collecting tips and bestowing kisses to those with an extra dollar or two to donate to a worthy cause (the worthy cause being the girls' financial situation). You would see the occasional booby facial, and if you had the inclination and the money to buy overpriced drinks, they would sit and relax with you for a while between sets. As for whether the girls made other "arrangements" with their admirers, that was between the two of them. Being a sex worker is not all it's cracked up to be. Not here, in a town that doesn't have a lot of ready spending money.

That's why the rodeo and hunting season were especially busy times. The cowboys came in, and they were ready to unwind and enjoy themselves after their work day was over. And the army of orange was always looking for a good drink and a good time. The girls were happy to oblige. For the right price.

In the first years I lived here, there was another bar in town that I would occasionally stop by when I was feeling lonely or blue. That was called the Jack O'Lantern, located a few blocks away. It was smaller, and its bar was in the same room as the stage, where the girls would get it on and take it off. Fascinating place. A good place to have a drink or two and enjoy the ladies' show, admiring "the wonders of nature," as a friend termed it once.

Eventually it closed, and the Cloverland now the field to itself--until it closed down maybe 10 years ago. Since then, there's been no place in town where a stripper could dance with her pole, shake it on down or collect dollars in her G-string. Or other places. "The wonders of nature."

Today, there's a place about 10 miles south, in Wisconsin, that has dancers, but only during deer season, when hunters come up north to get away from the Milwaukee or Chicago areas and the constraints of civilization to pursue their buck and take in the sights.

Aside from that, there's a place near Iron Mountain, but in Wisconsin, which has dancers most of the time. (The town is named, would you believe it, Spread Eagle.). That's where my fantasy baseball league holds its "preseason meeting." As I have written, it's fun/different for a while, but then I get bored with the nubile young things doing what they do on stage. What I would like to see is an older gal proud enough to do her thing, despite a few extra pounds. Because the woman I love has gotten older and added pounds. So maybe when I can watch her, I can imagine it's her, doing something she would never, ever do even for an audience of one. Understand what I'm trying to say?

It's been years and years since I went to a place like that by myself, for my own entertainment/relaxation/diversion. Time passes. It's not that I'm not interested any more, because I am. It's just that ... there doesn't seem to be the time to do anything that really would be relaxing and satisfy some internal itch that isn't being scratched.

So I think about those things. Meanwhile, the old hotel and bar, after sitting empty and getting old for many years, is finally going to be taken down. Well, it's served its life, I guess. But it lives on in memory.

Memories like the night (actually, a day) around New Year's when a slightly older woman pulled a quiet man into a back room, and they embraced and kissed. "For New Year's," she said. One hand found a breast. Another hand found a pair of balls. That was as far as it went.

Memories like the woman who showed off the new tattoo on the back of her shoulder by pulling her top up. She didn't have anything on underneath.

Memories like Buckskin Lorraine. That's what she called herself. She was maybe 20 years older than me. Once she talked about the time she celebrated her birthday at the Jack O'Lantern. Some music came on that she liked, and she stepped up on the stage and danced and took off her blouse. Then she took off her bra, and the bartender started yelling at her to behave. "Why should I?" she asked. "It's my birthday. Why can't I do what I damn well like!"

Memories of hands wandering to adjacent thighs or laps or under shirts.

Memories of the barflies who went semiconscious at the bar. Ninety percent were males. I would usually have one or two drinks at the most, and they knew I was pretty sober, so I was sometimes called upon to take someone safely home. Then I'd drive back and get a free drink as my reward.

Memories of the strippers. Always, always looking for a drink and a few bucks--as many as you had on you. Ninety percent of the time, they were black. (One time a woman in the bar gave me a hard time for talking with black women.) They were all right once you got to know them. Once in a while, when business was slow, you'd buy them a drink. Since they knew they wouldn't make much money off me, aside from the occasional dollar in the G-string, they focused on others.

They were in their exotic costumes most of the time, and sometimes in street clothes at others. One time one of them was wearing jeans. "Put your hand in my pocket," she said. "What?" "Just put your hand in my pocket," she repeated, a cagy smile on her lips. The pocket extended down about three inches; after that it was just her.