Private dancer isn’t exactly a romancer

A warm spring evening got hotter when the stand-up performance I expected turned out to be a comedy of errors. And the joke was on me.

I had received notice about a show at Club 7969 featuring “Mr. Romance” -- that had to be comedy, right? Every guy I’ve ever met claiming to be romantic ended up being a buffoon or a clown.

The club was dark, and I paused a moment at the door to let my eyes adjust. When I could finally see, I could hardly believe the view: long-haired men sprinkled throughout the club, their bare, oiled, hairless chests glistening. Um, was this some new improv act?

Timidly, I scurried to a small table in the back, where I later learned lap dances were being offered.

I was stuck, too embarrassed to leave. So I sat, clumsily munching on chocolate-covered strawberries and sipping champagne.

As six-pack after six-pack of the LaBare dancers gyrated my way, it began to make sense: This was, after all, billed as the “ultimate bachelorette party.”

To blend in as much as a woman sitting alone could, I handed out dollars and compliments: “You’re doing such a nice job.” “A nipple ring ... Wow, that must have hurt.” (My God, I thought, I’ve become my mom.)

Tucking tips into their skivvies was mostly to get them to move on. Really. Strippers make me nervous.

Then a dancer and I made eye contact. While undeniably hot, he was a bit long in the tooth -- in his late 30s -- to be a dancer, I thought. But hot is hot.

“Are you here alone?” he asked. I was half-listening as my attention was focused on the mostly naked David Schwimmer type who was writhing seductively under red satin sheets on stage to “In the Air Tonight.”

“Yes, I’m just scoping the joint,” I said, feeling a tad exposed myself.

“I have to tell you that you’re such a lovely, exotic black woman,” he whispered in my ear. “I’d like to take you to lunch sometime.” Normally, I’d give the oh-please eye to men who start out with “you’re a fill-in-the-blanks black woman.”

But, hey, I had never gone out with a dancer -- especially a lovely, exotic Latino one. Doctor, lawyer, probation officer, yes. But never a dancer. Besides, maybe there’s more to the man standing before me in boots and black undershorts.

So I handed him my card. Would it join his growing collection of bills dangling from his Calvin Kleins? I had to find out.

He bent down and placed the card in his boot.

After trading voice messages for about a week, we finally spoke.

“Hey, sweetie, it’s me,” my new exotic dancer friend said. (I suppose if you’ve already seen a man in his underwear, you automatically advance to the “sweetie” stage.)

“I’d like to take you out for drinks,” he said. “It’s 2 o’clock now, and I’ve already eaten. I’m not likely to be hungry later.” He spoke slowly, as to ensure that I’d hear every word. “You should eat -- at your home -- before we hook up.”

So we went from lunch to drinks to I’m-not-even-buying-you-dinner. Got it. This guy really thought he was as smooth as his clean-shaven chest.

We were to meet at 8 p.m. at a bar on Sunset. I took my time getting there -- after all, I wanted to be sure I fed myself at home sufficiently before arriving.

I pulled up to find him outside the bar, his well-defined body covered from neck to ankles. He was dressed for his day job selling cars, and clothes did suit him well.

It started out like a normal date. We sat at the bar chitchatting, sipping our drinks. After a half hour, we apparently had stripped away the inhibitions -- at least in his mind.

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” he said abruptly.

OK, I decided to bite. “Where do you want to go?”

“I can’t be romantic here with you. I want to go,” he said.

Romantic? Considering I had just met him and knew him only by his stage name, I wasn’t going anywhere to be “romantic” with him, no matter how hot he was, with or without clothes. But, seeing how this guy had operated so far, I was somewhat tempted to find out what he considered “romantic.”

“How about that table there?” I suggested. It was steps away and in public view. It had a candle on it, and that was about as romantic as I would consider getting.

In a conversation about relationships, he managed to slip in that he had two favorite sexual positions -- and started to mime them with his hands in detail.

“So this is your typical first-date conversation, eh?” I said nervously.

He laughed and indicated he was good to go.

I definitely wanted to get going -- to my home, by myself.

“I’d like to take you to a movie,” he said. “I have a private party tomorrow until 9, but I can come to your place afterward. Do you have a VCR?”

“You know, I’m going to have to get back to you on that,” I said -- slowly. To ensure he’d hear every word.

*

Michelle Maltais can be reached at weekend@latimes.com.