The Father, The Son, and The Unholy Strip Club
Since strip clubs were banned in India and my dad had never experienced one, I decided it was time to introduce him to this unique world. Yet, approaching the topic with my dad felt like tiptoeing through a minefield. I mean, he’s my dad! But with the realization that this might be a “Now or Never” moment, I mustered the courage to propose the idea.
“Dad, there’s this place I’ve been thinking about taking you to. It’s like something out of those Hollywood movies,” I suggested, feeling nervous.
“What kind of place are we talking about?” he asked, clearly intrigued.
“A strip club. I thought it could be an eye-opener—a taste of something you can’t experience back home. Just for the experience, nothing more! And don’t worry; it’s not as vulgar as you might imagine. If it doesn’t interest you, we will walk out immediately,” I said, trying to sound convincing while mentally crossing my fingers.
My dad’s eyebrows shot up so high they practically touched his hairline. “A strip club? Really?” he asked, half-shocked, half-curious.
“Yeah, Dad. It’s… uh… a cultural experience!” I insisted, hoping to soften the blow.
He paused, considering it. “Well, if it’s educational,” he finally said, trying to sound serious but failing to hide a grin.
“Fantastic! Let’s roll. Just grab your passport in case we need it for ID,” I said, my excitement bubbling over.
“But the passport is with your mom. How are you going to explain needing it?” he asked, casting a wary eye.
“Uh, that’s a bummer! Let me think of something,” I replied, internally scrambling for an excuse.
I made my way to the kitchen, where Mom was busy preparing dinner.
“Hey, Mom, can I borrow Dad’s passport real quick?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.
“Why on earth do you need it?” she asked, suspicion evident in her voice.
“Well, I’m planning to take Dad out for a drink at a bar, and you know how strict they are about IDs here,” I improvised.
“He looks old enough to drink; you don’t need his passport for that,” she retorted confidently.
She had a point that was hard to counter. He probably wouldn’t need it in the strip bar either, but I was playing it safe
“Yes, I know, but just in case. You never know with these places,” I reasoned, hoping to avoid further interrogation.
“Alright, but you have to tell me the truth. Where are you really taking him?” she demanded.
She was my mom, after all, and mothers are James Bond, often catching a lie from subtle cues in tone and expression. I knew I was caught, and I had to come clean. With a grin on my face, I mustered the courage to speak the truth.
“Mom, you know, he may not get this chance again, so can we please make an exception tonight and let him experience a strip club, please?”
Her eyes widened with disbelief but the way I pleaded with her to let Dad go was both amusing and adorable to her. She sighed, defeated by my relentless pursuit of unique experiences for Dad and granted us permission.
“Fine, but just this once. And no funny business!” she relented, handing over the passport with a warning.
I assured her, and Dad and I embarked on our little adventure to the strip bar, leaving Erika to watch the whole saga in utter disbelief. Marrying into such a “progressive” family, where strip club taboos were as casually dismissed as outdated fashion trends, must have been quite the eye-opener. Who knew she’d end up with in-laws so modern that a son taking his father to a strip club was just another Tuesday?
When we reached the bar, I paid the entry fee for both of us and we stepped inside. The moment we entered the pole dancing area, my dad’s eyes widened like he had just seen a magic trick performed by Houdini himself. Women were twirling, shedding clothes, and performing acrobatics around the poles, which made Cirque du Soleil look like a child’s play.
Dad stood there, frozen in awe, as if he had stumbled into a parallel universe where gravity had no effect on clothing. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of jaw-dropping silence, he turned to me and said, “Let’s leave.”
“What? Why, Dad? We just arrived, and I paid $40 for the entry fee! Can’t we at least wait until you experience a lap dance before we go?” I lamented in disappointment.
“I can’t. My blood pressure is rising,” he replied, hand on his heart, looking genuinely distressed.
I could tell he was serious, so without wasting another minute, we left and headed back home. When I recounted the story to Mom, expecting a lecture or at least a scolding, she surprised me by bursting into hysterical laughter. I guess even she couldn’t resist the comedic absurdity of the situation.
Lucky for me, Erika didn’t understand our language and had no clue about the details of Dad’s ordeal that I recounted to Mom. She just shook her head, probably wondering what kind of circus she had married into.
A few days later, my parents returned to India, feeling satisfied with their trip. Dad couldn’t help but comment on America’s streets, lamenting the absence of cows and dogs roaming freely. He also noticed the quiet sidewalks and the dominance of cars over pedestrians. His comments triggered a sense of déjà vu, reminding me of my own initial culture shock when I first arrived in the States.
