I Ran Into My Dad at a Male Strip Club
- By: Amanda Coscarelli
This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…
I went to the strip club for the same reason everyone goes to a strip club: irony. It was my friend Jess’s birthday, she’d just gone through a breakup, and someone decided that the healthiest way to process male disappointment was to sit in a dark room and scream-laugh with dollar bills in our hands.
I didn’t even want to go. I’m a “one drink and Irish goodbye” person. But there I was, wearing a tiny black dress I’d panic-bought online, telling myself this would be a story one day.
I just didn’t realize the story would involve my father.
The place was loud, neon-lit, and aggressively confident. The vibe was half bachelorette party, half ironic feminism, half regret. We grabbed drinks and squeezed into a booth, already hoarse from yelling over the music. I was scanning the room—not for anything in particular, just people-watching—when my eyes landed on a familiar posture.
That’s the thing about parents. You don’t recognize them by their faces at first. It’s the stance. The way they stand like they’re waiting for a Costco sample. The way they tilt their head when they’re confused.
I told myself it wasn’t him.
It was just a middle-aged man with the same haircut, same shoulders, same unmistakable “I don’t know where to put my hands” energy.
Then he turned.
That’s the thing about parents. You don’t recognize them by their faces at first. It’s the stance.
Direct eye contact. Full eye contact. The kind that freezes time and drains all the blood from your body at once.
My dad.
At a male strip club.
I didn’t scream, but something inside me absolutely did. I ducked so fast my friends thought I’d dropped a contact lens.
“That’s my dad,” I whispered.
They laughed. Obviously. Because that’s the correct response when someone says something so insane it feels fictional.
“I’m serious,” I said. “That’s literally my father.”
We peeked over the booth like we were in a spy movie. And there he was. My dad. Wearing jeans and a button-down. Holding a drink. Looking just as horrified as I felt.
He hadn’t come alone. That somehow made it worse. He was with a group—friends, coworkers, I didn’t want to know. All I knew was that the universe had decided to humble me publicly and permanently.
For a few seconds, we just stared at each other across the room, both of us clearly calculating escape routes. I considered crawling out through the bathroom window. He looked like he might fake a medical emergency.
Eventually, the inevitable happened. He walked over.
“Hey,” he said, too casually. Painfully casually. Like we’d run into each other at Target.
“Hey,” I said, my soul leaving my body.
We didn’t hug. We absolutely did not hug. We stood there, inches apart, both pretending this was normal.
He gestured vaguely around the room. “Uh. Birthday?”
“Yes,” I said. “Friend’s birthday.”
He nodded like this explained everything. “Right. Yeah. We’re, uh… celebrating too.”
We did not clarify what that meant.
My friends were dead silent. Witnesses. Jury. Executioners.
“Well,” my dad said, taking a step back. “I’ll… let you get back to it.”
“Yep,” I said. “You too. To… whatever this is.”
He gave me a thumbs-up. A thumbs-up. Then turned and walked away.
I considered crawling out through the bathroom window. He looked like he might fake a medical emergency.
The second he was gone, I collapsed into the booth.
I wish I could say I left immediately, but spite kept me there for one more drink. If I had to live with this memory forever, I was at least getting my money’s worth.
We didn’t talk about it for months. When we finally did, it was brief and mutual.
“Let’s never speak of that again,” he said.
“Deal,” I said.
But sometimes, when life feels too easy, I remember that somewhere in this world is a room where my dad and I once locked eyes under neon lights—and nothing has humbled me more since.
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