Free Fringe Florida: Travels Among Mud Boggers, Furries, Ufologists, Nudists, and Other Lovers of Unconventional Lifestyles by Lynn Waddell

Hills-
    Fo
    borough County Judge Elvin Martinez ruled that the ordinance indeed
    gni
    violated free speech and couldn’t be fairly enforced. Joe also wore down
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    the city by insisting on a separate hearing for each of the two hundred
    ht
    plus dancers charged. The court system was overloaded, putting pros-
    5
    ecutors in a politically delicate situation of prosecuting the dancers at
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    the expense of letting off violent criminals. Joe says he negotiated a
    better deal for the dancers, and their penalties were no harsher than a
    ticket for jaywalking.
    Since that summer, Tampa police haven’t arrested anyone for danc-
    ing too close, although the law remains on the books. Bob Buckhorn,
    who was out of office long enough for people to forget or overlook his
    failed decency crusade, was eventually elected mayor of Tampa.
    Lap Dance Alley
    No one inside the Mons tonight seems the least bit worried they might
    be hauled off to jail. The club fills by the minute. There are no empty
    chairs around the stage. A group of young men and women who look
    hardly old enough to vote sheepishly take seats along the wall. One
    watches wide-eyed as a nude dancer rubs all over a man sitting less
    than 3 feet away. Rather than being impressed, the young woman looks
    like she’s going to throw up.
    One of the geeks ventures to the darkest side of the room, where
    the armless couches are back-to-back. One side faces the stage and the
    other, a mirrored wall with little room to pass without tripping over a
    proof
    lap dancer’s foot.
    A well-dressed couple in their thirties sit facing the stage and sip
    O’Doul’s. They silently watch the half-nude dancer’s act as if it were
    a Broadway show. The geek sits in the shadows directly behind them.
    In short order, an older, heavily made-up dancer stationed there gives
    him a boob facial.
    Men on each side of him are getting full-friction dances, too. This is
    lap dance alley.
    Others seated about are checking me out, no doubt wondering what
    this woman is doing there all alone, standing and watching men get lap
    dances. I quickly perch on the closest seat, just two spaces down from
    ad
    the O’Doul’s couple. Soon I hear soft “oohs” and “yeahs” from behind
    ir
    and feel the tickle of someone else’s hair against my shoulder. In my
    olF
    haste to blend, I inadvertently sat behind a man who’s getting a lap
    eg
    dance by Cousin Itt.
    nir
    Ms. O’Doul’s keeps glancing at the dance behind me. I peek at the
    F
    geek’s dance behind her. Inevitably ours eyes meet. In panic, we spin
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    our faces back to the stage.
    Fortunately, the walls are mirrored. They reveal that the man be-
    hind me is getting a lap dance by not one, but two dark-haired women.
    Stacked like Pringles in his lap, it’s hard to tell where one body begins
    and ends. They are a dark mass of hair and torso with six legs, a human
    spider.
    No wonder Ms. Odoul’s keeps spying on them.
    On stage, a tigress puts on a novel show. With her back to the men at
    her feet, she hikes up her shredded dress and exposes her bare, round
    rump. Then she performs a feat you might expect to see in Tijuana. No,
    ping-pong balls aren’t involved, although she could probably play the
    game with her ass. She flexes her gluts to the beat of the music, alter-
    nating butt cheeks.
    As the song changes, she removes her wisp of a dress. The bodies of
    lap dance alley part. Behind me the females of the ménage a trois chat
    like friends who just finished yoga class. The woman on top wasn’t a
    Mons dancer, but the man’s wife or girlfriend.
    As the couple leaves, their dancer pulls on a short T-shirt and walks
    around to my side. Maybe she thinks I’m waiting in line. Maybe it is a
    line, and I just don’t know it. But here it comes.
    “Honey, would you like a dance?”
    “No, I’m just researching. I’m a writer.”
    proof
    She laughs, backs away, and says, “I get it.” Does she? Or is she just
    aware of how little writers