As Declan scooches in next to me, we center ourselves in the horseshoe-shaped booth. A server rushes over.
Wearing no top.
Okay. That’s unexpected.
It’s fine. I don’t react. I can be sophisticated. Maybe this is a tapas place that emulates the Spanish Riviera beaches. In Europe, women go topless all the time in the sun. No big deal. I avert my eyes and focus on Declan, who is, mercifully, watching me. He pours some wine and the server comes back with a menu, offering it to me.
Forced to make eye contact, I look up and catch a big old view of two nipples pointing up, like You Are Here signs. Well, now.
Music volume increases, the song fading, replaced by a deep, intense vibration that builds anticipation. A tapas bar with a show. Unexpected. Then again, this is Vegas, right?
I smile at Declan and widen my eyes, grinning and bringing my wine glass to my mouth.
I look at the menu.
No tapas.
Huh?
The stage lights explode with blinding white spotlights, and sparks fly as a show begins. Eight women wearing nothing but little jewels glued to their bare mons and feathered hats come pouring out from backstage, a ninth woman in Middle Eastern dress—which means she’s wearing a beaded necklace and a big ruby in her navel—belly dancing her way to a platform that is three feet from my face.
She crouches.
I bury my head in Declan’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong? She’s the closest I could get to...” his voice fades out for a minute and I don’t catch what he’s saying, because I’m trying to claw my way into his pocket to get away from the naked clam in front of me. “....on short notice. I called ahead to make sure they sent the right one!” he murmurs in my ear, his voice low and shrouded enough by his suit and my hair for me to hear. “Exotic enough for you?”
I look up.
And hello....kitty. Glitter and all.
I open the menu and shove it in front of my face, so close I can’t read it. Two inches back and I can make out the words. Appetizers. Entrees. Salads. Desserts. Beverages.
But no tapas.
“See anything you like?” Declan asks, his eyes glued to me. There are nine mostly-naked women up there gyrating and he’s looking at me.
“No, not really,” I say faintly. When I was in college, some friends convinced me to go to Boston and check out this “all male revue,” like Chippendale’s. Mom is really into male strippers. I’m not. I mean, I’m not a prude. I’ll watch porn here and there. I had strippers at my bachelorette party. I don’t judge.
But having a real, live, mostly-naked woman in front of my face while I try to eat dinner isn’t my idea of fun, especially when it’s a surprise.
I chug my wine and stand up. “Excuse me,” I say, scooting out the side of the booth.
“What’s wrong?” Declan asks, frowning.
“Nothing,” I lie. “Just need to use the bathroom.” I grab my purse and rush over to the solace of a toilet where I can sit down and not be eye level with a vertical taco.
OMG HELP, I text to Amanda.
Please answer. Please answer. Please answer.
What’s wrong? she texts back.
Declan brought me to a topless stripper joint for dinner, I text back.
WUT? she replies.
I know. Help, I answer.
How can I help? Rush over with coats to cover the women? she types, adding a smiley face.
You suck, I reply.
Need more ones and fives? Now that’s a topless bar emergency, she answers. LOL.
I hate you, I reply. LOL my ass.
“What was he thinking bringing me to a topless bar?” I mutter.
I stop, my entire body flushing.
“Topless bar,” I repeat, the words echoing off the steel stall walls.
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.
“Topless bar,” I say again, louder, my breathing growing raspy, hyperventilation a few minutes away.
“Yeah, lady,” the bathroom attendant says. “You’re in a topless bar. Congratulations for figuring it out. How drunk are you?”
Bzzzzz.
I look down at the phone. Amanda has texted back:
OMG, Andrew’s begging me to let us join you
WUT? I type back.
Declan’s texting him and going on about how enlightened you are and how you asked to go to dinner at a topless bar and asked for a Moroccan stripper and now Andrew’s pestering—
I stop reading, shove the phone in my purse, and rush back to the table.
I do not sit down.
The music number halts just as I look at Declan and shout:
“TAPAS BAR! I SAID TAPAS BAR!”
His smile wavers. Hoots and hollers from other tables dot the wall of sound behind me, but I don’t really hear because all of the blood in my body has rushed to my face from embarrassment.
“That’s right. We’re here. You said you liked Moroccan. She was the closest I could get on short notice—”
“T-A-P-A-S. Tapas,” I clarify, drawing out the letters as I spell the word. “Tah-pas.”
Even in the dimly lit nightclub I can see Declan go pale.
“Oh, God,” he mutters, draining his glass of wine and not bothering to refill it. He just starts drinking the rest straight from the bottle. People begin to cheer. Someone throws a casino chip at him. It bounces off his collar and clatters to the floor.
The belly dancer comes over and whispers in my ear. “Hey, honey. Your sweetie bought you special dance from me in one of the back rooms. I’m Amina. Heard you like Moroccan melon.” She licks the outer edge of my ear and cups her ample breasts, heaving them up so they’re inches in front of my mouth. “And you like to share.” She winks.