Readers,
We tried to go to a strip club. We were promised so much. “This is the worst place in my life,” said one reviewer. “Everyone supposedly got checked but a gun went off in the club,” said another. Others said, “Don’t go there do not do it for yourself!” and “this place like a funeral” and, rather succinctly, “bed.”
You might be curious: why would four Yale humanities dweebs with glasses and sweaters pull up to a strip club at 7:30 p.m. on a Wednesday? We were hungry, and we were there for dinner. Literally. “The chef is a five star chef, I go for the food,” said a reviewer. “The food is unbelievable. Five star Chef!” said another. That’s two good reviews, and both were about the food. We had to check it out. We were going to a strip club for the food. For the food.
Your two editors-in-chief, along with our venerable managing editor Cameron and our pal John hopped in the car and drove out to East Street for some wings and a breakfast menu. Red lights pulsed from the windows, but the sign said they wouldn’t open until 10:00 p.m., even though Google said 5:00 p.m. We called them up, and Ravi on the phone told us they were closed for a private event but would be open tomorrow at 8:00 p.m. He told us to come back the next day, and to call him when we do. And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day.
That evening, after production for this very issue, we hopped in and drove over again. 9:30 p.m. Managing editor Amber joined us this time. The windows were dark. Even the offices above the club were dark. A cab pulled up, a woman got out, knocked on the door, waited a beat, hopped back in, and drove off. Shit. We drove around, popped by 7 Clouds, came back after 10:00 p.m. Still closed. We called again. Ravi told us it was too cold. And there was evening, and there was morning—the second day.
The third evening rolled around and, frankly, we were tired. Heads ached, applications lay due in hours. 11:00 p.m., our anticipated time of departure, approached with apprehension. In our souls, we knew. God didn’t want us to go to the strip club. Not because He doesn’t approve of the establishment (He’s a frequent customer himself), but because our intentions were too subversive, too daring. His highest want is not the preservation of humanity from sin, but of maintaining the status quo.
Be better than us. Defy God. Subvert everything (consensually). Dare to dream. Wish us a happy birthday. And welcome to the Sex Issue.
Most daringly,
Will and Oscar
