Dear J Waves:
I have a strip club story and I think you’d like it.
See, my mom works with a guy whose girlfriend is a stripper in Raleigh. One of her stripper colleagues was having a birthday party at the club and we were invited. See, this coworker and his girlfriend belong to a swingers club, and I’m pretty sure they’ve had their eye on my mom and I in the hopes that one day they can fulfill their “Mother-Daughter Orgy” fantasy. Which does not really appeal to me. But it’s flattering, I suppose.
So we gathered up my brother and guy named Dan and the four of us headed out for the party. Dan was a veritable stranger who I found at the last minute on Craigslist and decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask if he was game, since in his post he stated he wanted to make “spontenuity-minded [sic] friends.” So I shot him an email and said if he’s really that spontenuious, he should come with me and half my family to this stripper’s birthday party, and lo and behold, he showed. Awesome.
So my brother had never been to a strip club before. My only experience with strip clubs involved the one right next to the lesbian bar in New Orleans where I used to go when I was about sixteen or so. It was called Double D’s and the strippers danced to Tori Amos remixes and tried to avoid the cockroaches skittering across the stage. That was where I kissed some dude with a tongue ring for the first time, and at sixteen, when you’re standing in a strip club and making out with a dude and his tongue ring is clicking on your teeth and his girlfriend is dancing onstage and she’s winking at you, it’s one part thrilling and three parts nauseatingly horrifying. And since three is more than one, I ended up bolting out of there pretty quick before I did anything even more stupid.
So anyway, we get to the strip club and it’s all blacklights and cigars and weirdness. It’s hard to see inside, which I was grateful for since my hot pink skirt and my turquoise tights had transformed me into some sort of walking sartorial nightmare. I’m not sure what mutant fashion sense had gotten its death grip on my psyche when I chose my outfit for the occasion, but it was not flattering. But then again, as always, no one was really paying attention to what I was wearing, but rather to what the strippers were not.
The strippers were cute enough but there was a very obvious lack of breast material. Which is fine, but I mean, if I have to watch a girl gyrate against a pole to Rammstein songs, I sort of want her to have tits.
I know this probably pegs me as superficial and shallow. Yeah, I don’t care. What strip club patron does not possess some degree of superficiality? That is what I want to know.
See, I consider myself a straight female with an undeniable tendency to be attracted to other females. I believe I just described 99.9 percent of all straight females. As far as women go, my ideal “look” is pretty much summed up by the likes of Katherine Moennig or Catherine Keener, who are both famous, or Kissing Bandit Katelyn, who is not famous but is certainly crushworthy in my book. Strikingly handsome, slightly masculine, chiseled badass lady types.
But I’m sorry. If I have to watch a chick hump a banister and tear fishnets off her arms and lick her collagened lips for a bunch of off-duty construction workers, her naughty bits better look like a damn comic book character’s.
Okay, I’m rambling. Back to the story.
So upon entering, my brother is pretty sure he’s hit the jackpot. He’s a very good looking kid, and was very well-dressed that night, but he was also immediately pegged as a rookie, so there were several working girls flirting with him, trying to sell him lap dances and table grinds.
He misconstrued this.
He was pretty sure they were just flirting with him, and this thought process is the kiss of death for socially awkward boys who are sitting in a strip club with cash in hand.
One of the girls who I’m pretty sure was about six months pregnant was trying to sweet-talk him into buying a dance from her. I heard her say to him, “Baby, you’re so cute! What’s your sign?”
And it was loud in there what with the music and the grinding and the cat calls, and I guess my brother misheard her and thought she asked his SIZE. I could almost hear him rifling through his mental database of porno dialogue before he unfortunately responded with, “Oh, I can be any size you want me to be.”
Which is not an appropriate answer for so many reasons.
She wandered off soon after, and my mom’s coworker ended up buying my brother a lap dance. He was escorted to the “Couch Room” much to my dismay. I really wanted to see this. I was not allowed to go with him, obviously. So he was being led by a towering brunette who cupped his left ass cheek the whole way to the secret room, and seven minutes later he exited and rejoined us and I coulda sworn he’d smoked a joint or something back there judging from the glazed look in his eyes.
He wheezed and stammered a bit, and the only words I could make out were “tongue,” “ear,” “raspberry,” and “crotch.” Oh, and “licked,” “my,” and “face.” He was a happy boy.
Meanwhile, I’m getting text messages from Shady who is safe at work in Hell, and he’s asking if they’ve got vienna sausages and Hot Pockets for sale. His favorite strip club offers these sorts of treats, along with a one-legged stripper who does not charge much for her dances, though I’m sure she could charge a shitload if she’d only tap into the correct demographic. I had to let him down easy and explain to him that this place was a rather classy joint. He was mildly disappointed.
All in all, the experience was quite fun, and I’m glad my brother got his strip chops while I was there to witness it.
Next time I go, I want mom’s coworker’s hot girlfriend to bring me to the couch room. I hear they take lots more liberties with female patrons.
Let me know if you want in next time.