I am married to a loving man whose favorite word is "YES." Really. He is naturally easy going and seems to go out of his way to accomodate my erratic writing schedule and my occasionally crumpled response to deadlines and critics, and generously shares our demanding child care responsibilities. We pride ourselves on the number of times we are able to say "yes" to one another even when grumpy domesticity threatens to supercede our relative good-naturedness. We have three soul-stirring boys, ages, 11, 9, and 5. We say yes a little less frequently to them, but in general, I would describe both my husband and me as game, curious and relatively open-minded in most things. (Except, at this point, when it comes to anything preposterously Bush-y.)
Last Xmas my husband and I were invited to a much anticipated (not necessarily by me) Xmas celebration, which was described on the lavish tin-imprinted invitation simply as, "THE PARTY." The party was being given by an admired and enormously wealthy gentleman that my husband has some distant business connection to. He'd done right by many people and generously helped so many others that not going seemed improper.
So, my husband and I secure our babysitter, dress up, and make our way, on a bitterly cold and snowy night, down to Tenth Avenue in the twenties, where the barren side streets are are lined with dance clubs, limos and slews of scantily fashioned clubbers anxiously hoping to gain access to the thumping wonderlands behind the velvet ropes. Their undaunted desire to be "chosen" to enter these places has always baffled me. I never submitted to the crass selection process at clubs during the eighties, in part because I was afraid of being overlooked, or worse, deemed by a beefy blowhard not "club material," so, though I did visit Xenon, and even Heartbreak, this is a middle-aged look-see, a kind of anthropological foray into the club world, and besides, this time, my name is at the door and I get scooped in with ease. When we enter the unsuspecting, unmarked door of the party venue, a New York City Club, (simply called "The Club" -- what's with the "the" all of a sudden?) I was surprised to find myself in the company of at least 350 well-dressed, adult men and woman, and about two dozen nearly naked "dancing girls." They weren't really dancing, as such. Their 7-inch-platform, lace-up, white, patent-leather boots made dancing too difficult, guess. What they were doing was more like dispassionate swaying to the indescribably loud beat of non-explicit hip-hop. Plus, they didn't have a lot of room to move about because they were stationed atop tall turbo-speakers that dotted the room and simultaneously created the ear-splitting volume that was clearly desired. Despite the caverous size and near total darkness inside the club, the girls were hard to miss. They were wearing white plastic hula skirts over white thong underwear, with white pasties and white flowing ribbons flowing from their long straight hair. As we make our way thru the club and pass by the swaying, half-naked decorations, I find myself wondering what the age of the girls is. Do they merely look underage? How young do they need to be to obtain this "job"? Is twenty too old? Who instructed them not to smile? Do they hope to meet a big spender tonight and wouldn't smiling come in handy, or maybe smiling is unsexy in this setting? Are their breasts real? Are they having a good time? Am I? (No.) Is my husband? Are the presence of nearly naked girls, 24 in all, making either of us ill at ease? (Yes.) Why do I feel like I'm at a overage bachelor party? (Because you are.)
In order to hear my husband I have to scream "what?" whenever he speaks. After a while, we forego talking and settle into awed silence. Sweating ice sculptures abound. We eat little bites of food at each of the overflowing food "bars." There's the sushi bar, the shrimp bar, the caviar bar, the many bar bars, decorated with ornately designed albeit sweating profusely ice sculptures and after we've visited all the food stations, unsure of where to plant ourselves, we just sort of hover in place and stare, occasionally scanning the crowd for familiar faces, which of course we can hardly make out, but when we do meet up with someone we know, we inevitably say something like, "Wild, huh?" at the top of our lungs.
By the time LL COOL J shows up -- apparently he's been paid to merely to drop in and walk thru the room -- most of the real grownups seem sensorily saturated, and I've begun to ask myself "Why do I exist?" over and over again. Just then, three girls, in even less clothing, begin to pump and swing from rising and falling trapeze bars overhead. The spotlighted girls fly over our eager heads, back-bending and accomplishing all sorts of peek-a-boo, cheese-cakey splits and twists. I look all around me, still existentially lonely, but a little relieved that this time the performing girlies seem to be smiling a little, possibly having a good time provoking every man (boyfriend/husband) in the room. The absence of male dancer/flyer/stripper types seems a predictable oversight. I wouldn't have enjoyed it much anyway, but, heck, fair is fair! What's good for the goose is good for the etc etc.
The host of the party beams. It's a successful night. Something his guests won't soon forget. The expense, a rumored quarter of a million dollars, would prove worth it. The exclusive DJ turns up the music. This time it's golden-oldies sixties fare to please all the baby boomers in the room. An aggressive MC takes to the stage, announcing that various star-acts from the sixites and seventies will soon follow, in the meantime, he instructs us to take to the floor and dance the night away. "C'mon people, get down and boogie!!" he barks. (To which I want to mumble, I'll fucking Boogie when I want to, and not when you tell me, asshole!) And, anyway, whatever happened to manners? I enjoy erotica as much as the next person, maybe more! I'm game and open-minded, as I said, but this version of tits on parade, noise on parade, alcohol and food on parade just makes me feel alienated in this age of unchecked caligulan appetite. I'm supposed to be having a good time, but instead I am slowly slipping out of my body, lost to worrying about humanity. And then, more urgently, lost to worrying about my husband, who just seems to be staring upwards a little too intently (and open-jawed). Poor guy, I think. I feel inclined to give him this sanctioned opportunity to enjoy the sight of upturned breasts soaring around the room, but why? Is this one of the reasons our marriage is so good and true, because we like to say "yes" and give each other a break? Is this the kind of break a man who is married for 13 years with three children needs? Deserves? Maybe it is. (I hope not.) I don't know anymore. The noise has me all confused. "LET'S GET IT ON" roils in the background. The trapeze trio have been lowered down a little more and some of the crowd needs to duck and cover to avoid getting clipped by high-flying spike heels and creamy asses sawing the air.....I wonder if husband o' mine is as distressed as I am. He doesn't really look distressed. Within a minute of asking myself this question, said husband turns to me, takes my hand, and says, "This is my version of hell, let's go." We claim our coats from more underdressed coat check girls, more excited to leave than we were to arrive, and as we hit the cold streets, taxis and limos at the ready, my husband asks: "Wanna go somewhere? (I say yes,) "Have a good glass of wine?" (I say yes.) And then, maybe, go home and have sex? (He says yes.)
Does love after 13 years of marriage include 24 naked women dancing? (Yes. Maybe. I hope not anytime soon.)