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I also think about what I consider to be sad fact of life: the men who blow me away with their beauty are most often not the same men who feel blown away by mine. Even if Christian thinks I am cute or has an interest in me, clearly it is a mild interest. He does not view me with the same reverence I have for him. He is not going to wake up tomorrow and feel inspired to write a long blog post with favorable descriptions of me. Our interest is unequal.
I resolve to make my body luxurious. I want my skin to be as soft as his, my hair as shiny, my muscles as strong, and my smell as sweet. I want to walk around in the world feeling like I’m in an expensive hotel with 2,000 thread count sheets simply because I’m inside of me. I vow to treat my body like it’s sacred.
We leave to get on the bus. I take a look at my phone for the first time in hours and have a text from a number I don’t recognize, asking how the party is going. I respond, “Who is this?” It is Marius, our bus driver from earlier. I’d been spelling his name wrong in my mind all along. The parked party bus is stacked with beers, but I turn them down. The girls dance and one person walks off to order pizzas. I’m feeling worn out so I kick back, look through photos from the night, and text Marius.
When we get back to the apartment, my friend yells, “Jessica, you have to have sex with that bus driver from earlier because I forgot to tip him!” I look at her and solemnly nod. I say, “I will. You don’t know how long it’s been. I really will.” (Note: I probably won’t.) Someone says that because he’s a recent immigrant he probably lives with his parents, so we’ll have to find somewhere else to “do it.” Someone else says they hope he doesn’t have a wife and kids back in Romania. I say I can’t believe she didn’t tip him.
In the morning, I wake up lying on a couch I do not remember falling asleep on. I have a blanket on me and feel happy knowing that someone who cares about me put it there while I was sleeping. I think about how girlfriends are the best.
Our plans for an elegant brunch fall through when everyone wakes up hungover and wanting to get home. My friend gives me and the bride a ride and we go through a McDonald’s drive-thru to get breakfast sandwiches before hopping on the Kennedy to head back to the suburbs. Marius texts me, asking me on a date for tonight. I let him know that I’d love to go on a date, but I live in the suburbs so it will require advance planning. Tonight will not work. I do not mention that I’m probably still drunk.
The maid of honor and bride discuss the night before while I sit in the backseat eating my breakfast. Apparently Corey hit on the bride while she was getting a lap dance. He told her to take off his shirt and said that, if she wanted, she could take off his pants later at his house. I am instantly envious and think that maybe if I did pole dancing instead of Zumba I’d have a body that is closer to the societal ideal and that then Christian would’ve made a similar proposition to me. I let go of the thought and drink my McDonald’s orange juice. It is much too sweet.
The maid of honor comments that Corey has been stripping for a decade. I ask how she knows that and she says that he was there the very first time we went to the strip club. At first I don’t understand–I was with her the first time we went and I don’t know how that would connect her with this piece of information. Then it sinks in. We’ve been going to this strip show for birthdays and bachelorette parties for ten years .
My friend says that Corey looked a lot different ten years ago. I can’t remember him. When we first started going to the strip show, I viewed it as no more than a spectacle. It wasn’t until a few years in that I got over the cheesy aspects and began to genuinely enjoy it and feel physical attraction toward the men. I think that is partially a result of me becoming more comfortable in that setting, and partially a result of the show evolving and become sexier and featuring a wider variety of higher-quality men. The first time we went I remember thinking that everyone looked the same–buff, tan, hairless, and covered in oil. It isn’t like that any more.
My friend says she still has our group photo from our first night there, ten years ago, and that Corey was skinnier and scrawny. She says she remembers him from that night, and that he wasn’t nearly as hot or as popular with the ladies as he is now. I wonder if Christian will still be stripping in a decade. I wonder if he’ll bulk up like Corey did and become a crowd favorite. I know he lifts weights. I wonder if he’ll figure out a way to successfully incorporate 80s rock (his favorite music) into his act. I take a bite of my hash brown and smile, knowing that in a year or two someone will be getting married again. I’ll end up at the place again, drunk, with a purse full of dollar bills again, able to find out.

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