Paul and I don’t get along too well
when it comes to women. I mean, honestly, I try to be reasonable, but the guy’s
two missed meals away from going ascetic, and he can’t do anything without
trying to give people tons of opinions on literally everything – I still think
he tries to give his knee-jerk opinions to the Ephesians every time he writes
them. And, every time that god and women comes up, he gets all smug and
condescending, talking about how even thinking about getting back in the field
is some grave disappointment and how marriage is for the less controlled, on
and on and on. And don’t get me wrong, he’s a brilliant man, but I swear – he
really seems to think all this self hatred will get him anywhere further than
the rest of us before god. So, when we decided to meet up and “discuss our interpretations”,
as Paul puts it, I told him that he could pick the restaurant if he drove us
both. Seemed fine, right?
Big Mistake.
We turn off the highway, down by
the motel where junkies take the direct route to god a few times a week, and
turn into genuinely the seediest strip club I have ever seen. I take two looks
at the place, see the bouncer ashing his cigarette into someone’s water, and
ask Paul what in God’s name his problem is. Turns out, Mr. Wise and Pure
thought that “Flaming Lipzzzzzz Girls Bar” was referencing the inspirational
words of women or something, and nothing I
tried to say would convince him otherwise. So we walk in, Paul pays both
our covers, and two seconds later we can’t hear anything, because the music is
playing like hell and there’s at least 70 children of god posted up at the
tables, drinking beers and filling the whole place with the stench of sweat.
And that’s not even mentioning the girls – the place was way more then
distracting, even for this humble monastic. It’s about the time that I notice
how sticky the floor is that I try to ask Paul if this place is a good idea,
but he just laughs and tells me that he “no longer belongs to the desires of
the flesh” and “will not be tempted”. Yes, that’s true, but we also don’t need
to spend serious time getting slowly broiled in a mixture of lust and
desperation. Somehow, we find a table near the back, and we haven’t even
started when some stripper comes up to us and asks, with a voice so
artificially sexual it felt like a pagan ceremony, if we wanted to go for a
private room. I was this close to leaving, but Paul, with some kind of sudden
insanity, pulls another $100 out of his wallet and takes us back there.
So we’re
finally somewhere at least a little quieter, though the music’s still loud as
hell, and the girl’s barely got her bra off before Paul’s staring with those
deep, caring eyes and asking her what must have been a hundred questions about
her life. And, with nothing more to lose, I listened. We learned her stage name
was Mizz Kokaine, but her actual name was Turia. She was married, her husband
was the bouncer outside, she’d been in the business for about five years now,
she might be pregnant but she’s not sure, she just opens up to Paul like he’s
her therapist. And as I listened, I felt myself becoming almost empathetic.
Sure, this place was lust personified, but Turia? She was just a person,
someone who loved someone, who had been good in marriage, who lived a holy
life, who was forced into bad circumstances because of things beyond her
control. And if sins weighed on her, they weighed doubtlessly more on those
around her – her insurance agent who doubled premiums unexpectedly, her
landlord who’d threatened to evict her if she reported him, her mother who had
called her a worthless slut and not spoken to her in five years. She was afraid
of what was happening, what would happen if she wasn’t making enough, if her
husband got arrested. And then she was gone, our five minutes were up, and we
made our way out.
We spent
at least an hour talking in the car afterwards, about Turia, about the club,
about what was necessity and what was lust. Paul believed it was all adultery,
but condemned it in a sort of bemused way – he didn’t particularly dislike
them, he simply felt that their own sin was too apparent to be ignored. Which
made me angry. As natural, the discussion escalated, and I found myself
responding – that, in the end, virginal purity didn’t make any difference if
she was living a pious married life. I mean, who cares if she’s a stripper?
Piety isn’t meant to be all about appearances, and faith should come out of
oneself, not some big bad desire to look good for the other ascetics. In the
end, the saint and I had to agree to disagree, and he drove me back to my
apartment before returning to whatever hovel a man who could afford to tip a
stripper three digits decided to live in. I’ll never get Paul, truly, but the
least I can say is that nobody else is like him. There is one thing I can’t
forgive, however – I don’t think the floor gunk is ever going to get off my
shoes.
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