My stripper stash

I was in "purge" mode this weekend, going through a box of papers and old notebooks, when I stumbled across a pile of stripper photos. I wasn't kidding before when I said my friend Trouble and I were male stripper connoisseurs. There were photos of men in G-strings dancing, autographed posed shots, photos of dudes surrounded by dollar-waving, liquored-up women that made you wonder if the guys made it out alive.

I actually blushed as I flipped through them. I flashed back to the time my mom found a Polaroid of me at one of the shows -- I was sitting in a chair surrounded by men in tiny denim shorts, with a blond hunk on my lap. My smile in the shot is nothing short of beatific. "Were you drunk?" my mom exclaimed, offering me an excuse. "Nope," I admitted. It was the truth. I was totally at home with a pack of near-nekkid, sweet-smelling, tousled-haired men pressed against me.

Hmm. I hope I still have that Polaroid somewhere.

The photos remind me I'm not the girl I was 15 years ago: hard-drinkin', barely-sleepin', spending my money on strippers and club outfits while the credit card bills went unpaid. Now I'm nearing 40, a homeowner who drives an SUV and has a retirement plan.

And yet ...

The remnants of that girl live inside me. I came of age with raves and rap, so I have to go out dancing periodically to stay sane. (If I get too old for the clubs, I guess I'll start having house parties. Rob Bass and Lords of Acid will not be denied.) I still like alcohol, but I've stopped going for the drinks designed to get you the drunkest, fastest. The girl has matured into a woman who likes to have a good time, but knows there's more to life than the next good time.

However ... I do have a framed, autographed picture of a porn actor smiling at me here in my home office. He goes in a drawer when mom comes to visit.

Some habits are hard to break.