Bruno Mars played in the background, cigarette smoke filled the air. The haze and blaring music was like a disguise masking the reason men entered dimly lit doorways into buildings with no windows. The reason is simple: Sex sells.

We held hot pink gift bags with zebra print tissue paper tightly in our hands. Be casual, act natural, I repeatedly said in my head as I opened the door to the strip club. I pranced up to the bouncer like I’ve been his friend since 1998, flashed a big smile and asked if we could give some gifts to girls working in the club. Suspiciously he asked why. The short script I memorized flowed out like I was selling ice to an eskimo: cool, smooth, and as if it was needed.

The bouncer, still suspicious of why three clean-cut girls would enter a seedy gentlemen’s club to give gifts to strippers, kept us in the doorway as he spoke to the owner. We gave him some homemade cookies as a thank you [and a bribe] and prayed to God we would be let in. The last time we were there, access was denied.

The bouncer returned chewing on the cookies and escorted us to the dancer’s room backstage. I was expecting white vanities littered with makeup, round lightbulbs across the top of the vanity, and directors chairs draped in satin robes. Just like Hollywood portrays.

I walked into a small, filthy room with incandescent lighting. No chairs or vanities with starlet lighting options. Just animal print duffel bags, chips, and flip flops laid  around the periphery of the room leaving a small space to stand or change outfits in the center. There was a counter top with a bit of space. We placed the gift bags on the cramped countertop and waited until the girls returned from “working the floor.”

As the seconds ticked by, the signs near the door reminded me of the life the girls led. Bullet-pointed and laminated, the sign listed penalties and fines if mandates weren’t made.

  • A fine of ___ will be charged if you are sick
  • A fine of ___ will be charged if you leave early
  • A fine of ___ will be charged if outfits are old
  • Your money is due to the management at the end of each night

“What is this,” a girl screeched with excitement as she entered the room. She recognized us from last time and knew we had returned to give a small gift of makeup, nail polish, and lotion. With childlike glee she pulled out a rose-colored blush from the hot pink bag and began applying it to her heavily painted face.

Within seconds other girls filed into the room excited about opening their gift bag. Bags were opened, tissue paper pulled out, makeup tried on. It felt like an x-rated Christmas party!

One scantily clad girl in blue lingerie held a small, microwaveable dinner in one hand and the gift bag in the other. “What is this for? I don’t get why you guys are here…” She trailed off in thought. Perhaps she was drunk. Perhaps she forgot what an unconditional gift felt like. Whatever the case, I explained that the gifts were small reminders that they are special, thought of, and cared for. She said thank you. I looked into her eyes and smiled. She turned her face and walked away.

Her head hung as she walked away in her clear, plastic high heels. Food in one hand, gift bag in the other.  As she walked away I felt the weight of her heart. I felt hollow and sad and confused. In that moment I felt her emptiness. The item held in one hand can satisfy a momentary need, but the item held in the other can meet an eternal need.

As we walked back to the van where the rest of our team waited and prayed, I was reminded why we were there. We were allowed into the club because we divinely needed to remind ourselves and the girls working the floor that Jesus loves strippers. Just as he loves drunks. Just as he loves pastors. Just as he loves you. Just as he loves me.

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