Tomb
Our intrepid writer hits The Roadhouse and Boudoir Rouge on a Friday night
“Dude your sister is hot!”
That’s how the night begins. As we walk under the CP Rail bridge a guy hollers down at us — and then in case we missed it he yells the same thing as we emerge from the other side. “What about me?” I shout back and get nothing.
It’s Friday night. Calgary is in a state of emergency due to flooding and we’re going to The Roadhouse.
The woman I’m with is not my sister. My friend Tara is the co-founder of Apocalypse Wars a zombie charity event taking place in August. As a self-proclaimed former bar-star she’s the perfect companion for this nightlife experiment.
We arrive just before 11 p.m. There’s no lineup. The bouncers usher us to the door where our IDs are scanned and a webcam captures our faces. Welcome to The Roadhouse.
Inside the heteronormativity hits like a brick. In the dim light cleavage shines from every corner. When I head to the bar for tequila shots the three male bartenders ignore me and the sole woman takes my order. We’re about a decade older than the average person in the bar. (I later meet a 21-year-old who complains “I feel old!”)
On the dance floor a couple grinds like it’s their job grim faces set straight ahead hips churning to the beat. They’re surrounded by tight groups of women glowing in black light bouncing happily to Top 40 tunes. All around the dance floor there’s a thick moat of men with spiky hair and tight logo-emblazoned T-shirts staring.
Between the men and the floor a shot girl dances nimbly across the railings dressed in impossibly short shorts and little more than a bra framed by two enormous holsters that each contain a bottle. Her name is Larissa. She has me take off my glasses and tilt the back of my head into her thighs. I open my mouth and she pours in a mixture of root-beer-and-something then bends over presses her breasts into my face and shakes. This is called a “motorboat.”
“She makes a ton of money” says Tara as we walk away. I struggle to imagine the job description: pour bend shake repeat?
We dance two-stepping past the stripper pole and young women dancing on the speakers. The crowd goes wild for “Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy.”
On our way out we run into a woman that Tara met in the bathroom. She’s a Roadhouse regular celebrating her 20th birthday. “The people are so nice” she says. “I meet everyone here!”
We exit. It’s after midnight. We cross the street to Boudoir Rouge.
Once again we scan IDs and pose for a headshot but here the bouncers are in full suits and the walls are covered with classic black-and-white nudes. Inside patterned searchlights scan across the walls. There’s a party vibe complete with DJ but no dance floor just two mainstages (for featured dancers) and several smaller stages (for go-go dancers) tightly encircled by chairs.
The strippers in truth are more athletes than dancers. When they clamber up the pole spin and stretch in mid-air it’s easy to applaud their acrobatics. The dancing however is just a series of poses thrusting tits or ass toward smirking patrons without an ounce of subtlety. We all know why we’re here.
Each routine ends inevitably with the dancer — naked except for stilettos — rolling up a signed poster and placing it between her legs for a coin-toss. If you’re a good shot you can take the poster home.
Off in a corner there’s a lone male stripper dancing around a pole with a grinning female patron. He’s bare-chested and built. When the woman bows out Tara leaps in to take her place. “Show me your moves” she challenges and they start to dance.
I sit down and instantly an imposing bouncer leans toward me. Before he can say anything the stripper chimes in: “It’s okay he’s cool.” It turns out this section is usually reserved for VIP groups — bachelorette parties work functions — but it’s quiet tonight.
The bouncer lives in Mission. He’s still evacuated with no power and staying with his sister. “It could be worse” he shrugs. “Gets the family together.”
Tara slumps down next to me. The stripper’s moves weren’t doing it for her — lots of hip thrusts not much else — and anyway a new group of women are vying for his attention.
On the way out we meet a bored server; both her sections are dead. She likes working here she says. “The people are really nice.”
Every month Mark Hopkins will step outside of his comfort zone and write about the experience. Do you have an adventure to suggest? E-mail him at mark@swallowabicycle.com .
