Saka, the Necktie, and the Bush Babes

Saka, the Necktie, and the Bush Babes

So me and Saka are on a well-deserved break from our sales gig and taking in some of the local color at a semi-famous club in Anchorage that bears the rather descriptive name of The Great Alaskan Bush Company. Sited in a rustic building clad in rough-sawn siding and just off the main drag, the Bush Company is an amazing outpost of adult titillation, staffed with some of the most amazingly beautiful women one can imagine, all of whom apparently have a rather tragic allergy to clothing.

Anyway, the two of us are sitting in a couple of red vinyl chairs right up next to the rail at the main stage, and we each have a five dollar watery beer clenched in our paw. At this particular moment a very healthy looking African American woman, whom the DJ has identified as Ebony, is gyrating in a rather seductive manner on the stage in front of us while the impressive sound system is blasting out the improbable song God Damn the Pusher Man. Given the setting, it is at the same time both a stirring and unsettling experience.

As the evening goes by, me and Saka watch as a seemingly endless procession of shockingly attractive nude girls marches across the stage before us while we puff on our cigars and admire the scenery. It is quite clear that these women are not your average run-of-the-mill Alaskan bush beaver, but are a non-native species attracted to the great white wilderness by the veritable river of one-dollar bills that seems to gush from the wellspring of the pockets of the highly paid roughnecks filling the room. Caught in the current of charity, me and Saka are casting wads of greenbacks into the swirl, and being rewarded with glimpses of the type of well-trimmed pubic topiary not often seen outside the inner sanctums of Las Vegas gynecologists.

At some point during the evening, a pair of flannel-shirted locals sits down next to me and begins to enthusiastically participate in the unholy rituals. These high-spirited men are apparently quite familiar with the rites of the hooter bar, and are soon swept up in the festivities. After a few minutes, the fellow farthest from me, a large red-faced man with a scraggly beard and long unkempt hair, leans over behind his buddy’s back, taps me on the shoulder, and with a huge grin yells over the music, “My old lady’s gonna be dancin’ here tonight!” He nods his head sagely, and with a serious look says, “She used to dance at that cheap place over on Seward, but she’s moving up to the big-time now!”

“Yeah,” his friend, the scrawny guy closest to me chimes in. “I’ve seen his old lady naked. She’s hot!!!” And with that he gives me a crooked grin and a thumbs up.

I take a sip from my lukewarm beer, glowing unnaturally yellow in the ultraviolet light, turn and address the thin-faced buddy, still nodding and smiling. “No shit,” I reply earnestly. “Did you at least pretend to look surprised the first time she came on stage?”

A couple of beats go by while the pair ponders this, and then, while his big-ass buddy stares at him, the little guy gets an angry look and yells, “Wait a minnit! It ain’t like that!” Then, as the Wilderness Twins begin a spirited discussion, I turn back to see what’s been happening with Saka.

A most unusual sight greets me. I can understand why a farmer would want to avoid loose clothing when working around the tractor, but who would have guessed wearing a necktie to a strip club would prove to be such a mistake? Certainly not Saka, who happens to be wearing his favorite Armani—a father’s day gift from his adoring wife. Anyway, somehow the stripper on stage has gotten a firm grip on Saka’s cravat, and now the boy is struggling mightily to free himself. The naked and sweaty lady is at the edge of the stage with her feet on the brass pipe that lines the bar, and is leaning back like a marlin fisherman trying to boat a trophy. She’s straining with her back and the muscles in her arms are stretched tighter than Phyllis Diller’s hairline as she relentlessly reels him in hand-over-hand, and the helpless Saka is flopping around in his chair all red faced and sputtering.

Before I can lend a hand, Saka is levered inexorably forward until his face is buried in the stripper’s nether region, and she then gaffs him by grabbing an ear in each hand. Then, just when Saka starts to realize that this isn’t entirely a bad place to be and his struggling begins to subside, she puts her heels on his shoulders and with a shove pushes him back into his chair. Then, while a bewildered Saka is slumping back trying to regain his composure, the young lady on stage takes the bottom of his $100 necktie and with a quick flick of the wrist she wipes her suzy from stem to stern with it and then tosses the business end back over his shoulder. And just like that, Saka’s prized tie is infused with an unmistakable scent, that unique blend of cheap perfume and stripper sweat that is inexorably linked to these dens of iniquity.

An hour or so later, me and Saka are back in the rental car headed for the hotel when I sniff the air a couple of times and then turn and look pointedly at Saka. He’s chewing on his cigar and concentrating mightily on what I can only assume is the necktie problem. “Damn,” he says wistfully. “Too bad she was wearing perfume or I could have said we went fishing.”