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A date at the Cheetah Club—and in case you’re wondering, I’m still single. By Hannah Wallace   I turned 27 a couple of months ago, and it was the first birthday to give me that “suddenly I’m old” sinking feeling in my stomach, which in turn caused me to ponder the causes of my long-standing […]

November 9, 2006


A date at the Cheetah Club—and in case you’re wondering, I’m still single.
By Hannah Wallace
 
I turned 27 a couple of months ago, and it was the first birthday to give me that “suddenly I’m old” sinking feeling in my stomach, which in turn caused me to ponder the causes of my long-standing singleness. Am I too forward? Too awkward? Is my voice too deep or my forehead too high? Or are potential suitors simply overwhelmed by my striking beauty and intellectual prowess? Am I just too damn neurotic?
 
Or, perhaps worst of all, am I actually one of those commitment-phobic self-saboteurs whose perpetual singlehood stems from an innate and insatiable pickiness?
 
And so, when a male acquaintance (who will, for his own sake and mine, remain unnamed here) asked me to join him last weekend for, and I quote, “naked chicks and booze,” I wondered if this were an opportunity to prove my last theory untrue. I pondered the merits of a date at the Cheetah Club.
 
Admittedly, it wouldn’t be my first Cheetah excursion: I have once before (well, ok, twice) accompanied male friends (with whom I am, obviously, quite close) to experience the Cheetah in all its naked resplendence. And those trips each turned out to be a blast: mindless and energizing top-40 music, mindless and energizing alcohol, good friends and comfortable chairs. And, in a lovely departure from most mindless and energizing nightspots, a strip club in no way obligates you to dance. In fact, I haven’t checked, but I’m pretty sure they discourage audience participation at the Cheetah.
 
And best of all: You can rest assured that not a single person in the whole place gives a damn about what you’re wearing.
 
So, I decided, I could posture for moral superiority—and weasel my way out of a date—or I could suck it up and admit that I had no problems with the strip club. Darn it, I was going to join that questionable young man for an evening at the Cheetah.
 
Unfortunately, I quickly learned that being a Cheetah apologist still didn’t mean accepting the invite was a good idea. And I also learned I’m not too picky after all.
 
Leaving out most of the gruesome details of that evening, I’ll end with my strip club caveat: If you’re not there for the naked ladies, you’d better make sure you’re there with someone you really like. Acceptable date venue or no, when your companion passes out in the middle of his lap dance, it’s probably time to end the evening.