Travis LaFrance
At Home in the Halls of Power

Lap Dance for Democracy

After last week's infiltration of the Republican singles scene, I directed my attention leftward this weekend to the boys and girls fighting the power this election year. An email from someone named "lovecreature" arrived, inviting me to a Saturday night party called "Revolutionary Love in the Pleasure Dome," all proceeds of which benefit the League of Pissed-Off Voters, a group staffed by shapely mares and dedicated to trotting out the 18-35 year-old voters on election day. The invitation promised:

• lap dances from the hottie of your choice
  
• raffle with prizes from toys in babeland
  
• live show that will be OFF the HOOK!
  
• an all stevie-wonder set by DJ reborn 2:30am-4am
  
• strip tease contest

Needless to say this soiree wasn't held over in Manhattan with the suits and squares and Gap shoppers, but right here on the Hudson's rive-gauche: bohemian Brooklyn where the ghosts of Walt Whitman and Henry Miller smile down on our libertine lifestyle.

When a cocksman such as myself wants to get rubbed up against by an available female, he certainly doesn't have to pay for it. It is she who generally waves the dollar bills my way, and I who gently refuse them. But I headed up Fifth Avenue nonetheless, clad in the suede sneakers and hip-hugging Levis required to mesh with the younger generation. It was September 11, and I could see the the twin shafts of light beaming up from Ground Zero in the western sky.

Despite the group's name, no one here seemed pissed-off. Dancing was frenetic, break crews hit the floor, navels were exposed, cocktails were gulped. Those of us of Nordic lineage were in the distinct minority, but as a man who has traveled the world as an ambassador of good will, I felt right at home.The staff of the LOPOV took the stage—an ethnically diverse eight-some of babes with bared shoulders and low-rise waistlines –and they raffled off condom gift boxes, racy panties and sex toys.

I cornered one of these fair creatures on the dancefloor, her chest heaving and tattoo glistening with perspiration, and asked her what she thought of John Kerry.

"I'm mobilizing thousands to vote for the guy," she panted, "but if I had to endorse him I'd vomit."

I wandered downstairs to the bathroom and, by accident pushed open a door labeled "Private." A guy in a trucker's hat looked me over.

"Lap dance?" he said. Behind him was a curtain, and beneath it I saw woman's legs in high heels.

"No, I was just looking for the bathroom," I said. "But just to wonder, how much does it cost?"

"Seven bucks."

I took a mental inventory of the money in my pocket. It is an important election, I reminded myself, all funds are going to get out the vote. I reached for my wallet and stepped into the chamber.

Our democracy is in peril—and everybody has to do his part.