Cyndi, Sandy, and Elvis

I bought my first motorcycle, an act I now realize symbolized newfound freedom, from Dave B. after divorcing my first wife. Dave now lives near Baton Rouge and was my best friend when we both worked as geologists at an Oklahoma City oil company. The rock and roll world of the last oil boom was hell on marriages, including Dave’s and mine. Both freshly divorced, we became running buddies.  A recent email from my old pal reminded me of one of our adventures.

We both had company cars and what seemed like endless expense accounts. The loose money was great for attracting attention. Between us, Dave and I knew practically every female that worked in downtown Oklahoma City. One night, six oil and gas secretaries persuaded us to spend some of our money and take them to see an Elvis impersonator. We were easily convinced.

Three of the young women were crazy about the recently departed Elvis. The band, backup singers, and Elvis impersonator sounded exactly like Elvis. Well, if you'd had a few drinks and were sexually excited because of being the center of attention of six adoring ladies.

The concert was entertaining, further enhanced when one young lady, in particular, began hitting on me, another on Dave. When we returned to my apartment, Dave and five of the women departed while Cyndi (not her real name) came inside with me for a nightcap. Hell, it was two in the morning! We both had our intentions, and for the moment, I assumed that they were the same.

We were sitting on the floor in front of a fire that I had hastily built in the fireplace, and we were groping around on the rug like a couple of boa constrictors in heat when the phone rang. I have waited to say that Cyndi was the girlfriend of a close friend of mine, Mike (not his real name). Mike was married, Cyndi only his girlfriend, and it is safe to say that he did not intend to marry her. Cyndi and I were both single.

"Have you seen Cyndi?" he asked, she's not at her apartment.

"Maybe," I said, our legs encircled and my hand under her blouse, still clamped on her right breast.

I began to smell a setup when he asked, "Is she at your place?" Cyndi, I suddenly sensed, had used me to make Mike jealous. Still very much engulfed in the throes of extreme passion, I said, "She was here, but she just left. I think she’s on her way back to her apartment. You need to go home," I told her after hanging up the phone and zipping up my pants."

"Are you sure about this?" she asked, standing and adjusting her own clothing.

"There's nothing I would like better than spending the night with you, but I think we would both regret it tomorrow."

Cyndi must have agreed because she was gone in less than five minutes, leaving me to contemplate my unexpected predicament. After all these years Mike is still my friend, as is Cyndi, although their relationship ended years ago. I never made it with Cyndi, though sometime later I had a little fling with Sandy, one of the other girls that Dave and I took to the concert. How did Dave do that night? I never asked, and he never volunteered the story.

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

DANCING AT THE SCORPIO

While rummaging through my closet, I found a tee shirt that evoked a treasure of old memories. The tee sported a poorly drawn picture of a scorpion and bore the name of the establishment from where I purchased it: Scorpio. Under the name were the words: dancers, pool, and cold beer, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

The original Scorpio was an old two-storied building located at Villa and N.W. 23rd, across the street from the Shepherd Mall. The bottom floor had a bar, several pool tables, and a dance floor—a wooden structure raised about three feet off the floor. Music played while the mostly male customers shot pool, drank beer and watched the dancers perform on the raised structure.

The female dancers all wore the equivalent of a bikini with no exposed nipples, buttocks or pubic hair. That was downstairs, the action upstairs quite different—at least I had heard. Not everyone was allowed to go there. Nudity in Oklahoma City, at the time, was banned and rule breakers treated harshly by the authorities.

Most of the young men frequenting the bar were baby-boomers. Many, myself included, had survived the dirty war in Southeast Asia, partaken of the many illegal drugs so readily available there, and had visited the nightlife of Saigon and the brothels of Bangkok. Oil exploration was turning the City into a boom town, the young men of Oklahoma, and those pouring into the State because of the boomtown prosperity, an adventurous bunch and ready for a change from the ways their fathers did things. The Scorpio was there to provide that change.

I remember the first time the stairway guard allowed me and my friend Mick to go upstairs. I tingled with excitement and to say that electricity filled the darkened room would be stating a stale cliche that didn’t come close to expressing the pure sexual exhilaration constricting my chest and shortening my breath. A Bob Seger ballad wailed through the darkness as a pretty blonde girl gyrated, totally naked on the stage, both exposed and swathed by the reds, blues, and greens of a dancing strobe.

Upstairs was a clone to the downstairs with one essential difference—the dancers performed totally nude. Each young woman danced to the music of three songs. They performed their first song, like the downstairs dancers, in bikini-like costume. They would remove their top toward the beginning of the second song, and their bottoms during the beginning of the third song to the captivated attention of every young man in the place.

About this time, the Supreme Court ruled that nude dancing is not pornographic. After having their hands rapped by several adverse court decisions, the City removed its ban on nudity. Nude dancing soon became common in clubs around Oklahoma City, the Scorpio moving to a new location on North May.

Totally nude dancing continued in Oklahoma City until the Supreme Court ruled that cities could regulate activities that the majority of the people did not approve of. I don’t think a vote to regulate nudity ever occurred but the local police began operating as if it had. Oil prices had begun to collapse, ending the oil boom and Oklahoma City’s boom town mentality. Baby boomers were older and most, by this time had their own children. No one much protested the end of an era.

The Scorpio no longer exists, but the building that housed it remains. Ironically, it's now the home of a Vietnamese pool hall and domino parlor. I smiled as I pulled on the old tee shirt, a little too small for me now, but still in good shape. Yes, an era has ended but I still have my memory of the first time I climbed the stairs at the old Scorpio, not knowing what to expect, but spellbound with youthful anticipation.

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Born a mile or so from Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma and continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. If you liked Dancing at the Scorpio, please check out his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBook author pages.

The Infamous Though Largely Forgotten Penn Square Bank Tower

Penn Square Tower

Here is a pic of the Penn Square Tower in Oklahoma City, built toward the end of the 80s oil boom, and a symbol of what brought the industry down.

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