The first table-dance bars opened in Mexico City in the early 1990s, a year or two before the passage of the North American Free Trade Agreement. In the intervening fifteen years, they have become a commonplace in the city. The most expensive feature curvy blondes from Eastern Europe (a common wet dream for the Mexican male) or heart-stopping beauties from South America. The cheapest variety employ women with bodies shaped like dinner rolls, who strip to the skin while pole-dancing, but never remove their long-suffering expressions.
I hadn’t been to a table-dance bar in a long time, until the other night when I went to the Plaza Garibaldi with a woman friend who, after our third drink, all but insisted we go to the Déjà Vu, located across the street on the Eje Central Lázaro Cárdenas. The experience was one of those moments – which occur frequently in Mexico City – where I am caught by surprise after feeling as if I have seen everything.
As part of her act, one of the dancers in the club ingested and then discharged an ice cube, utilizing an orifice most commonly employed for other purposes. Shortly after, another dancer appeared on the runway. She was clearly, visibly pregnant, four or five months into her term.