J: 1/10/03

Work Diary, 1/10/03

About a week ago, I rented Margaret Cho's video, "Notorious." Like her
other video, "Notorious" was shot during Cho's latest comedy tour. It's
a good video; Cho is funny, sad, mocking, and empowering.

One topic of Cho's act is her visit to a sex club, in which she finds
herself in a sling, a leather mask covering her face while another
woman prepares to do something relatively nasty to her. Before the
event can take place, however, Cho lifts her head, unzips her mask, and
says, "You know, this just isn't me."

I laughed and laughed, because Cho's picture of a sex club was perfect.
Like I said, she can be empowering, so I've decided to relate my own
adventure at a sex club, one that's less than five minutes from my
house. It's called "The Midtowne Spa," and - I love this - it's a
franchise. Cities across the United States have Midtowne Spas. It says
so, right on the map hanging in the entryway.

The entryway was the size of a broom closet, with a red light hanging
from the ceiling. The clerk sat behind safety glass, bored and
apparently unaffected by the display case of sexual tools - condoms,
oils, phallic things in various shapes and sizes - right next to him.
"Room or locker?" he asked over the thump, thump, thump of bass-driven
music.

"Locker, ha ha," I said, and handed over my seven bucks. The surly
clerk said nothing, so I laughed again. No response.

The door buzzed, I went in, and the clerk handed me a lock, key, and
warm towel through a hole in yet another piece of safety glass. He
pointed to a dark hallway, but while turning to go, I knocked over a
bucket of condoms - they're free, I guess, once you get inside - and
had to kneel on the floor and pick them up. When I glanced up, the
clerk was smirking at me from inside his glass cage.

The locker room resembled most inner-city school locker rooms: cramped,
smelly, paint peeling off the walls. Had the music not been so loud I'm
sure I would have heard the steady drip of a leaky pipe. The place
reeked of cigarette smoke and bleach, a combination that immediately
brought to mind every Southern grandmother I've ever met. Sitting with
his back to me was someone who looked to be my age; he was naked and
had spread his towel over the bench. When he stood and turned around, I
recognized him from college. He beat a hasty retreat and left me to
fend for myself.

The lockers had seen better days. Some had missing hinges; others were
impossible to lock because the latches had been removed or, from the
looks of them, torn off. I chose one that looked least likely to harbor
roaches, stripped, wrapped the insufficient towel around my waist, and
walked towards another hallway. I guessed, correctly, that it lead to
the actual club, though in the half-light it seemed like hallways
branched off in several directions from the locker room.

I could spend some time discussing what I saw in the sex club, but as I
was only there for about thirty-three minutes, I don't think I would do
the club justice. There was a lot going on, that much is true. But like
watching an iceberg, I'm sure I only saw the tip of it.

So, like some sort of overrated television awards show, I offer you the
following highlights from my experience at the Midtowne Spa:

"Most Ridiculous Thing I've Ever Seen": A group of men - some naked,
some with towels like mine - standing around a buffet table of shrimp,
cheese, crackers, and red Kool Aid in a punch bowl. They were chatting
about the weather, their jobs, the new airport - while all around them
porno played on televisions mounted to the ceilings. I did notice that
the Spa used high quality paper plates and napkins (though, really,
would it matter if you had a little spill?).

"Most Likely to Never Get a Date": The man walking around the Spa with
rope tied around his ankles and wrists. Presumably the rope was to
fasten the man to whatever post or doorknob was nearby, thereby
disabling him so his assailant could do all sorts of unspeakable
things. He passed me once or twice, a forlorn look on his face and a
plate of shrimp held daintily in one rope-burned paw.

"Most in Need of a Visit to Detox": The very drunk and very skinny
fellow passed out in the 'TV Room' (noted for its giant television
screen and because it was the only room in the Spa with carpet). The
drunk reeked so much that he'd filled the room with an effluvia of
beer, wine, whiskey, and - most certainly - gas. He may, in fact, have
been dead, though this didn't deter others from lying about with their
towels wide open.

"Most Dangerous Place to Traipse While Trying to Remain Modest": The
rickety metal spiral staircase that lead from the upstairs of the Spa
to the 'Dungeon' (which, as far as I could tell, was just like the
upstairs, only with black paint on the walls). The staircase shook and
groaned as I tried to keep my towel in place while hanging over the
railing, peering into the blackness and letting my eyes adjust. My
torso hadn't seen sunlight in over a decade; I must have looked like
some sort of ghostly gigolo floating in the dark. When I finally took
the plunge and stepped into the 'Dungeon,' I miscalculated the final
step and literally plunged into a wall. My towel was left behind,
hanging on the stair railing like a surrender flag. I retrieved it and
the staircase gave one final shudder; had I been wearing shoes, I would
have kicked the damn thing.

"Most Likely to End Up as a Newspaper Headline": Anyone who actually
entered one of the rented rooms. The rooms were probably six feet by
nine feet, and contained a small table, the requisite porn-driven
television, and a single bed covered in a plastic sheet. Some of the
more deluxe rooms contained a double bed and perhaps a sling. Walking
through the hallways, I was startled to see many of the rooms open for
business, the occupants sprawled leisurely on the beds with come-hither
looks on their faces. Whatever common sense I had left told me that if
I were to enter one of the rooms, I would be carried out in a plastic
bag (either by paramedics or by the occupants themselves, many of whom
looked like they collected body parts as a hobby).

"Most Hilarious Thing I'd Heard in a Long Time": 'Hey, look, asshole!
You can do whatever you want to me - knock me around, slap me, tickle
my feet - but don't touch the hair! NOT THE HAIR!' Emanated from behind
the closed door of a room with glass walls. Unfortunately, the
occupants had pulled the curtains, so I didn't get to see the coiffured
gentleman and his unruly companion.

"Most Painful Moment": When a leather-clad freakazoid came out of
nowhere and, with both hands, pinched my chest so hard that I ran
screaming like a little girl from the room, tore open my locker (might
that explain all those broken hinges?), threw on my clothes, and exited
the building.

Thus comes an end to our presentation. Good night.