07-08-00
Tomorrow is my birthday. My purpose in telling you this is two-fold: One. I expect e-cards from every single one of you. If you can't buy me everything from my wishlist, you can at least send me e-greetings, which are free. Two, it's the set up for a story that reveals a deeper glimpse into my little world.
Last year on my birthday, Dana and Dan took me to Dolls, the local strip club. I've been there before, and I have to admit that it's a source of cheap entertainment; ladies get in for free, and men act like idiots when they find themselves with a wad of ones and a pair of naked breasts and the g-string-clad woman to which they are attached.
As an interesting aside, let me explain the strange phenomena of a strip club like Dolls or Dancers, as seen through my eyes. Men come in, sit down and drink overpriced beer. A semi-decent looking woman with breasts of an indeterminable size comes out in cheap lingerie, wiggles around for the first song, flashing her panties for dollars. When the second song starts, magically she loses the outerwear and is left teetering around in a pair of exceptionally high-heeled shoes and a thong. She also probably has really bad hair, since this is Iowa. At this point, men wave dollar bills at her, and she comes over and grabs their heads, thrusting their faces into her cleavage. Then, for some inexplicable reason, she bludgeons the man's head with her breasts, all the while trying to smother him. The man's hair is always messed up, he always looks dazed, and he always gives her a dollar or more for this service. I've been the unwary victim of this same scam, and let me tell you, depending on the size of the jugs involved, it can feel like anything from being smothered in a bowlful of marshmallows to being pelted with volleyballs so violently that your neck aches from the whiplash*. Invariably, though, the breasts smell nice. One stripper told me that a popular fragrance among those in her industry is Colors de Bennetton for Men.
Which returns us to our story. It's 1999, my birthday, and we're at a strip club. I walk in and take a seat at the far side of the stage, Dana skampers off to the ladiesroom, and Dan is presumably off getting overpriced alcohol for us all to consume. I have not been seated for 5 seconds when out of the corner of my right eye, I see two women in their skivvies running towards me, with eager looks on their faces. I warily asked them what they want and they tell me they want to dance for me really really really badly. Not being one to interfere with free enterprise**, I give them each a dollar, and moments later, wearing a gyrating stripper on each thigh, I am being pummelled by sweetly-scented breasts from both sides. That's right, not even there for a minute and I've already gotten stripper-lovin' for my birthday.
We probably should have gone home at that point, because that should have most definitely been the highpoint of my evening. Instead, Dana came out of the bathroom and Dan appeared with booze, and we settled in for an evening of bad music, boobs, and laughing at other people.
Everyone is of course impressed by the prompt two-stripper action, and I am subjected to further breast-lashing throughout the remainder of the evening, everyone nicely sticking dollars in front of me to summon a stripper while I'm not paying any attention. One of the strippers is even wearing the same shoes I am; a pair of red glittery 'if Dorothy Gale was a stripper' chunky heels. As we are sitting there, my hammered friend Travis, who I had no idea would be there, stumbles over with his equally drunken friend, Kris, who is also someone that Dan knows from his job at the mall. The two boys sit on either side of me for the remainder of the evening, and the five of us enjoy the floorshow. A little drunken groping goes on, but I'm not getting in to that.
When we are kicked out at closing time, we decide to give Kris a ride to his car. I think I thought he was attractive, and after an entire evening of Travis and him lavishing me with attention, I was vulnerable to his - I was to later find out - not even remotely numerable charms. I was also really drunk. Anyways, we get in the backseat of the car, and while we are downtown cruising around, looking for his car, he half-heartedly gropes my chest. I really didn't care since it's probably some residual boob thing from being surrounded by them all evening. And then he unzips his pants, pulls out his penis, and looks at me expectantly. I almost bust a gut laughing; it's my birthday and as a present to myself I'm going to blow some guy I just met in the back of Dana's car while we're driving around looking for said guy's car? I don't think so - I'm not that drunk, and he's not even remotely that lucky.
I did get his business card though, and after several half-assed attempts at making me his booty call***, I lost his number. It did make a memorable evening, and the best part is that last night, I saw Kristopher at One-Eyed Jake's, where I was dancing with some friends. I spotted him right away, and man, does he look awful. He's super pudgy, he's got some sort of scraggly chin-pube thing going on, and he was apparently attached at the hip to some skank. It almost made me too embarrassed to relate this story to the people I was there with and point him out. They were all like, "You slept with THAT GUY? EWWWW." He was much cuter last year, honestly. And the look on his face when he realized who I was made my night complete. He did a complete doubletake and couldn't stop staring at me all evening. Unlike him, I look even better now that I did last year. Hah.
*As a test of sorts, and long before her de-boob job, Dana did this exact "smother the man while pelting his head with my sizable mammaries" move on a boyfriend while in the throes of passion. He stopped her from her task and asked why the hell she was trying to kill him. No money was exchanged, and I think she bruised his face. In any event, it was not a successful experiment, and we have concluded that it only effectively works if you are mostly naked and the men involved are all drunken strangers.
**Another strange phenomena of the strip club is that men totally dig it when a dancer performs for a woman. I think it gets out all of their fantasies about all women being latently inclined to lesbian activities. You know, the whole scantily clad pillow fights at sleep-over parties headtrip. To any end, if a stripper makes a good show of it with a woman, she is guaranteed to make a hell of a lot more money off the men in the peanut gallery. She might even score a few lapdances, which is where the real money is made. Oh, that and the deal where about half of the strippers are inclined towards lesbian activities, and probably dance for the same reason that I like to go to strip clubs - to watch men act like idiots, and to take their money from them.
