Strip club bar club friends

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Some nights, the dancers out the customers. The women perform pole-dance moves with evocative names—the Genie, the Hot Cherry, the Boomerang, the Hello Boys, the Static Chopper—to thin, scattered applause. There are no windows. Instead, the mood is mostly funereal. I grew up here, and the Manor is a local landmark, a source of both notoriety and wry civic pride. The club, once a stately Queen Anne-style mansion, is stranded in a bleak expanse of parking lot, bordered by the slash of the highway, on one side, and a residential neighbourhood, on the other.

Above the front door looms a giant, glowing M, gripped by a suggestively silhouetted woman in high heels. Attached to the club is a complex of apartments called the Manor Motel, whose tenants tend to be precariously employed, receiving government assistance, or struggling with addiction. The Manor has had many lives. It was built, inas the residence of local politician and beer baron George Sleeman, complete with vermiculated amber limestone, stone cornices, stained-glass windows, verandas, fish ponds, and a footpath made from the bottoms of glass bottles.

But, now, strip Strip club bar club friends everywhere are dying. For people who prefer a more personal touch than porn offers, there are always webcam performers; for those who trawl strip clubs looking for sex, escort websites allow for a more straightforward transaction.

Meanwhile, as downtown real estate booms and low-income neighbourhoods gentrify, municipal governments are making life difficult for strip-club owners. In Guelph, local bylaws forbid any other adult-entertainment facilities.

Norman Brings \

If the Manor closes its doors for good and becomes, say, a condo development, the city will never see another strip club. Init underwent its strangest iteration yet: every Sunday, a church service started meeting in the club, pole and all.

O ne dancer at the Manor performs only to new country. On the television screens behind her, the Red Sox were walloping the Blue Jays. That evening, a woman in black lingerie hunched at the bar, picking at a plate of nachos, waiting for the night to get going. Another wondered loudly about scoring some coke. A vinyl poster of Jesus half-covered the glass shower stall where, normally, strippers would bathe before audiences of leering customers.

In the red-white-and-blue foxy-boxing ring, intended for erotic fighting matches, children rocketed around, bouncing off the ropes like blips in a game of Pong. This was Church at the Manor. Lunch was laid out on the pool table: spaghetti with Strip club bar club friends, Greek salad, Nanaimo bars, Rice Krispies squares.

Confused strip-club customers sauntered in, looking for an afternoon lap dance. There were occasional baptisms in the parking lot. Through all of this, a small team of dedicated volunteers sang, prayed with congregants, and discussed the Bible. Today, at the front of the room, a short brunette woman named Jen Lewis was discussing David—the sinful king of Israel, who shed much blood and lusted after Bathsheba bathing on the roof, but whose son, Solomon, went on to build the First Temple. Lewis was trying to make the point that, despite his flaws, David was still a man of God.

Amid all the chaos, though, I had a hard time following her lesson.

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Then Lewis picked up where she left off. And the Bible says that, where two or more people are gathered, there he is. S haron and Jack Ninaberwho started Church at the Manor, have been married for thirty years. Jack is low-key and boyish looking with utilitarian wire-frame glasses and receding grey hair; Sharon is loud and gregarious with bright blue eyes and a wide-open face. She sobbed and screamed at God, asking him what she was missing.

A few days later, she began to hear God speak. Sharon asked God questions, and he answered. Her revelation changed the way the Ninabers approached their ministry. InJack was fired from his job as a pastor at a small church outside Guelph. Worshippers would bring food, sing songs, and talk about what they saw God doing in their lives. Sometimes they received prophetic visions and spoke in tongues. As the congregation outgrew their living room, Jack and Sharon began to look into renting space elsewhere. One day, they were driving along the highway.

But, the more the Ninabers thought about a church in a strip club, the less like a joke it seemed. When the Ninabers first met with Roger Cohen, though, he was skeptical. He asked if they were going to rehabilitate his dancers. He noted that he was considered the biggest sinner in town.

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He told them to rent a warehouse instead. Jack and Sharon insisted that they wanted to meet people where they were—to reach those who would never step inside a traditional church. They reminded Cohen that Jesus was known as a friend of drunks and sinners; he had allowed a prostitute to wash his feet and had requested water from a Samaritan woman.

One Tuesday morning, Cohen sat expansively in his office. Cohen, sixty-seven, is heavyset with close-cropped grey hair and a taste for flashy jewellery—gold watch on one wrist, gold bracelet on the other, blocky Cazal-style frames. Cohen is an unlikely vessel of Jesus.

In addition to being the owner of a strip club, he is Jewish. He was born in Egypt and came to Canada with his family aspart of the Jewish exodus after the Suez Crisis. He is palpably fond of the Ninabers and seems to regard them as New Testament softies to his Old Testament hard-ass. Mostly, though, it came down to finances since, at the time, the church paid him a few hundred dollars per Sunday.

The room at the top of the tower, which is known as the Penthouse, still Strip club bar club friends mouldings, stained-glass windows, and a fireplace. The Manor Motel used to function as a dormitory for the dancers. Cohen told me that the Welcome In Drop-In Centre—a soup kitchen and community space in downtown Guelph, run by a Catholic charity—began to refer clients in need of an apartment to the Manor Motel.

Over the years, Cohen says, he and Leyser formed an improbable bond. D uring the eighties and nineties, running a strip club was like printing money. There were travelling shows, more like burlesque than like stripping, that had huge followings. The strip club itself was a cultural touchstone: Flashdance, Showgirls, Blue Velvet. People used to stand up on the pool tables!

She was there to bring him a Tim Hortons coffee and bagel. And they paid us amazing amounts of money. Once a year, she served as a judge at the Miss Nude Canada ant. On beer! C hurch at the Manor was not a lucrative ministry. The Ninabers both worked other jobs to make ends meet—Jack did roofing and Sharon ran an online craft shop. Even if they remembered, they were lucky to get twenty dollars; occasionally, they collected cash left onstage from the night before. Follow us, and watch how God provides. Most Thursdays, ministry volunteers went into the strip club to talk to the dancers.

One night, I met Jen Lewis in the Manor parking lot, and she invited me into her car for prayer. She prayed for the Manor, that it might become something different; for our safety as we went in; for Cohen to open his heart to Jesus; for the women there to know freedom. She prayed for me and thanked God for my interest in the church and the club. Above all, she said, we do this to honour God. We went inside. The club was nearly empty.

A dancer took to the pole, wiping it first with a handkerchief, her lingerie phosphorescent under the black lights. Lewis had brought chocolate-covered strawberries, salted-caramel brownies, and mints for the dancers and staff. We sat in a cluster of couches and chairs on a dais toward the back of the club, arranged the food on a table, and waited. At first, only bouncers and waitresses stopped by to chat—they were used to the team coming in on Thursday nights—but, eventually, a dancer made her way over to us.

The dancer introduced herself and sat down. She was in her early twenties, she said, and had gotten into dancing when she left home as teenager and needed money. After about twenty minutes, Lewis invited her to church. It was her boyfriend, waiting in the parking lot. Many lived outside of Guelph and worked a string of clubs throughout southern Ontario.

Others came once or twice out of sheer curiosity. Others, though, said they appreciated having the ministry people around. I often saw dancers embrace the outreach team enthusiastically and talk to them at length. I find it cute. Jack and Sharon insisted that their ministerial approach was nonjudgmental: they think that lecturing people about sin is no way to bring them to God. In Strip club bar club friends, there are several groups—like the Strip Church Network, based in Las Vegas—that do this kind of outreach. Church at the Manor, however, is the only ministry I know of to actually hold services in a strip club.

The Manor outreach team never told the dancers that stripping was wrong or pressured them to quit. Most of the time, they simply chatted, offered snacks and gifts, and almost in passing, let the dancers know about Sunday services. Still, the Ninabers were drawn to the Manor in the first place because they believed stripping was exploitative for everyone involved. They often talked about the evils of sex trafficking and told me that helping women get out of the industry was the ultimate aim of their Thursday-night outreach work.

It seemed hard for them to imagine why a woman might freely choose to become a dancer. I witnessed plenty of misery during my visits to the Manor—dancers who were intoxicated, customers who were cruel or predatory. Everyone at the club was seeking connection, even if it was as ethereal as the voice of God.

T he future of the Manor is uncertain, and everyone involved has a competing vision for it.

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A descendant of George Sleeman, the original owner, has considered buying it but has said that the cost of repairs would be prohibitive. Jack and Sharon hope that the Manor will someday become a house of God—not a church but a sort of training and community centre. The strip club would disappear.

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The motel would remain, but it would become subsidized low-income housing. A congregant once prophesized this would happen, and the Ninabers pray that Cohen will help them achieve it. Left out of this discussion, though, was another important group of stakeholders: the dancers. If the club shuts down for good, they face a dwindling pool of options.

Anyway, many of them enjoy working at the Manor. Yeah, it would be sad to me. I nChurch at the Manor began to run into trouble. A key member of the ministry team moved away. Others felt overwhelmed by their full-time jobs. Fewer people were volunteering to bring in food for Sunday services; more and more, Jack and Sharon wound up ordering pizza. Sunday attendance dwindled. At first, Jack and Sharon were despondent. Over time, though, they came to realize that Sunday services were the least important part of their ministry at the Manor.

It was all those times when we were able to be involved in their lives. The ministry team set up a barbecue in the parking lot to grill burgers and hot dogs. Someone brought an acoustic guitar. A handful of people showed up, and they all sat in a circle, singing and waxing nostalgic and reading from the Gospel of Mark. They held Sunday Bible study in a little apartment just up the street.

Strip club bar club friends

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