Gbenga*, 32, is the kind of man who prides himself on routine: the quiet comfort of a Friday night beer followed by pizza and ice cream treats for his wife. But one unexpected birthday hangout with old friends led him somewhere he never imagined — a strip club on Lagos Island.
In this story, he unpacks the guilt of being touched in ways he couldn’t confess, the silence that followed, and why he still wants to go back — this time, with his wife by his side.
This is Gbenga’s story, as told to Adeyinka
Friday nights usually follow a script for me. Close from work, stop at the mall to pick up groceries, grab one or two drinks at the bar near my estate, and buy suya for my wife. That was my routine, predictable and safe.
But that Friday, a text came in at 3:37 p.m.
“Guy, when you dey close?” It was *Femi, an old friend from uni. He was celebrating his birthday and wanted to host a few of us at his office for a small hangout. I’d forgotten all about it. Still, I didn’t want to miss out. Femi had always shown up for me. I figured I’d pass by for an hour, drink something light, still make it to my usual bar stop, and be home with suya by 10 p.m.
I texted my wife: “Babe, Femi’s birthday hangout came up. Might stay out a bit. I’ll still get your suya.” She replied with a thumbs-up and “have fun.” That usually meant she wasn’t mad, but wasn’t entirely thrilled either.
I left work at 5:30 p.m. Another friend who had also been invited picked me up, and we drove down to the Island. We got to Femi’s office and they were throwing it down — drinks, music, cake, small chops, and a few people I hadn’t seen in a while. In my head, I assumed that was all there was to the night. It meant I wouldn’t feel too guilty about leaving my wife to spend most of her Friday night alone. If only I knew the plans my friends had ahead. From there, we moved to a nearby grill bar. Again, not too out of the ordinary. I took pictures and sent updates to my wife to give a reassurance of how I was spending my evening. I even answered a quick video call while we were ordering drinks. I wasn’t hiding anything.
By 9 p.m., I tapped Jide and told him I was ready to leave. He nodded, and I thought that was it. But just as we were heading out, one of the guys — the loudest one in the group, the kind who always takes things too far — grinned and said, “Birthday boy, I get one last surprise for you tonight.”
He clapped his hands together and said, “We dey go strip club.”
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I laughed at the idea because I genuinely thought he was joking. Then I realised everyone else was already in agreement. I was the only one hesitating. That was the first time I felt my chest tighten.
I’d never been to a strip club before. A few invites here and there, but never anyone so unplanned that didn’t give me enough time to come up with a solid excuse about why I couldn’t attend. I always told myself I wasn’t interested, and it was the truth. I didn’t judge people who went — I just didn’t think it was for me. But in that moment, with my ride already approaching the club, I sat there and told myself it was fine. It was just one night; just to see what it looked like. No touching, nothing extreme. Besides, I’d been upfront with my wife the entire evening. What was one more detour?
I didn’t realise how shaky that logic was until I walked in.
The place was loud, dark, and you could see the red light bouncing off mirrors and glistening skin. The music pounded in my chest. The dancers moved slowly and hypnotically. They had loud makeup and scanty dresses. Even worse, some of them were naked. Just made up faces, wigs and heels high enough to bump up the shortest person a few inches. I sat at the corner of our reserved table, already regretting my life choices. Before I could fully process the place, a dancer approached me, pressed her oiled-up bosoms against mine, and whispered, “You look tense. Let me help relax.”
She went further and placed my hands on her waist while I just sat there motionless like a zombie. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t move or smile, I just froze. I could feel the heat of her skin, her breath near my ear, her breasts brushing my chest as she danced. It should have been exciting because I could see my friends going crazy with dancers who had latched on to them. For me, it was overwhelming. And then my phone buzzed.
My wife was calling.
The guilt hit me before I even looked at the screen. I stared at her name, unsure if I should pick up the call and explain how I landed at a strip club or ignore it. All the while, the dancer was still moving, getting bold and inching closer to my groin. The phone had been ringing for some time before I concluded it wasn’t wise to answer. So, I ignored.
About ten minutes later, she called again. This time I felt the guilt swell up my throat. She was probably worried sick, wondering why I wasn’t home yet and why I wasn’t picking up her calls. Yet, here I was, in a strip club, with a lady as good as unclad tugging at my phallus.
That’s when the music started to feel louder, the lights too red. Everything was too much, and I felt like I was wearing shame as cologne. I shifted awkwardly and proceeded to excuse myself. The dancer smiled like she’d seen it all before and moved on to the next guy.
I stood there for a few minutes, pretending to scroll through my phone. I kept wondering how I’d explain it if she asked. My chest felt heavy, not just with guilt, but with the realisation that I didn’t even enjoy it. I wasn’t repulsed. I wasn’t excited. I was just… lost. I suddenly felt stupid. Like I’d crossed a line I hadn’t even agreed to approach. I kept wondering: Why didn’t I just go home?
Then I noticed something that only made it worse — a couple sitting just across from us. A man and his partner, laughing, sharing drinks, and occasionally getting pulled into dances together. Somehow, seeing them made everything feel less wrong. They looked like they were having fun together, and you could tell they both made the decision that resulted in spending their Friday night at a strip club.
Then it hit me — this wouldn’t feel like betrayal if my wife were here.
For a second, I imagined myself in that man’s seat. But not with guilt choking my throat. Instead, with my wife beside me, both of us laughing and judging everything that played out in front of us.
I leaned over to Jide and whispered that I needed to head home. He raised a brow and asked if everything was okay. I nodded, already collecting my phone. He didn’t argue — just gave me that “omo, you dey miss” kind of look and said we’d talk later.
Femi and the others were still deep into the fun. I waved them off and stepped outside. Nobody really tried to stop me. The night had swallowed them whole, but I’d already had enough.
The image of the couple stayed in my head the whole ride home. I kept imagining how I’d have felt more at ease and probably enjoyed the experience if I had come with my wife.
I returned to the house a little after midnight, and my madam was on the couch, half-asleep, Netflix still running. She asked how the hangout was. I said, “It was cool. Traffic was mad.” She nodded and went back to her show. But something about how she looked at me — quiet, sharp, unreadable — made me feel like she already knew.
I felt like I was walking through fog for the next few days. I couldn’t stop replaying that moment when her call came in. I started overcompensating: more chores, longer conversations and extra sweet texts. And then four nights later, I told her. Well, I told her a version of it.
I told her the version I could live with: that the guys dragged me there and I didn’t want to go. That I stayed for a bit, felt awkward, and left. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole story either.
I didn’t mention how a dancer straddled me without warning, how her hands found their way to parts of me that should be reserved for my wife. I didn’t talk about the way her breasts pressed against my chest, how she whispered into my ears like we shared a secret, or how I didn’t push her away — not immediately. I left all that out.
And maybe that’s what’s been bothering me the most. When I finished talking, she looked at me for a long time. Not angry or disappointed, just quiet. Then she said, “Okay.” Just that one word, and somehow, it stung more than if she’d shouted.
I haven’t been back since. But the memory lingers — not because of the lap dance, the lights, or the bodies moving in the dark. I think about it because of the guilt I carried home, and the part of the night I’m still hiding. I’ve mentioned it to her again, half-jokingly. “Maybe next time, we go together. At least that way I won’t feel like I’m sinning alone.” She gave me a small smile and said, “Maybe.”
I don’t know what that means. But I think about what it would feel like to go again — this time, side by side, not as someone caught in the middle of temptation and guilt but as a man whose wife is in on the experience and not excluded from it.
Maybe I want to redeem that night, or perhaps I just want to stop feeling like I did something wrong. Either way, I still don’t feel settled, and I think that says it all.
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