But nothing about this club is glamorous. The makeshift stage — a slab of old wood glossed black with paint — while cute, is not part of my fantasy. Nor is the sad lingerie or the presence of my potential Latin lover, his eyes hypnotically melting into the gulf of the dancer's thighs. 

A new song cuts on, a slow Spanish number, and the patrons clap. I find myself clapping too, though I’m crawling with anxiety. It’s official: I want to leave. But now the dancer is removing her robe, and the men are clapping louder. Eduardo, too. I laugh nervously and scan the transfixed faces of every man in the room. Something about it all thrills me, but also embarrasses me — I’m insecure, because for the first time in three days, Eduardo’s attention is not focused on me. I’m jealous of a stripper.

Raul leans in, “I’m sorry, Sarah. I thought you’d like it.”

“I do! I do!” I feel myself blushing, and I never blush. “Don’t worry, it’s fine,” I tell him as the dancer unhooks her bra, flinging it offstage only to have it swooped up by the manager. Then, off comes the thong, and I swear, the men have all stopped breathing as she whisks herself up by her knees onto the pole and begins to climb slowly, because everything in a strip club happens slowly, deliberately. It’s the tease, the anticipation that makes me take Eduardo’s offered cigarette. Even I’m watching now, mesmerized, as she reaches the ceiling, her muscular legs stretched in an unbreakable V, sliding in this position all the way down, flashing everything, the pièce de résistance of her performance. I could never do that, I know, and as the club erupts with fanfare, even I manage an appreciative smile at the stripper, who (I think) I see smile back. I’m relieved that it’s over. 

The lights dim, and the music halts suddenly. The club manager rushes over to the girl, drapes her in a dingy towel and ushers her offstage in a flash. 

“Did you see that?” Rachel asks. “So weird.”

The music cuts on again, and we pool money for the bill. 

It’s still early as we pile back into the VW. Antonio passes me another warm Sol, and I chug it, flushed and glad to be leaving. Eduardo shifts and the car thrusts and creaks onto the road. “You okay?” he asks, and takes my hand. Tonight, I will let Eduardo lead me to the rooftop of his building and unwrap me like a tamale. 

“I’m fine,” I say, and watch hotel signs flicker goodbye in the dirty side mirror. Raul dictates directions in Spanish and we’re off to someplace else, somewhere I’ve never been and may never return to again. “Where are we going now?” asks Rachel. Eduardo shrugs, and there’s no one on the road but us.