"Let's Go, Mountaineers!"

I'm not sure if this belongs here or in The League, but screw it, this is my blog so it gets the love. Some people's spots about to get blown, but oh well.

Saturday was my friend Stacey's birthday, but like a trouper she still planned to work her regular shift as floor manager at my regular spot. Thus, Saturday night would be a mix of work and play, and there would be lots of free booze flowing.

Cue my arrival at 4:30, when the place was dead empty. Literally. Me, the day-shift bartender, the DJ and the DJ's girlfriend. Thus, there was nothing else to do but drink. Happy days.

Night shift starts about three hours later, when Stacey and the owner - who's bartending - arrive. (I've mentioned this before, but Rusty is a smoking-hot redhead with ample cleavages and knows how to have fun.) Stacey's still recovering from the night before, when she was bartending, and all hell let loose at midnight for her birthday. She claims the only reason she survived is because the dozen or more shots she did were all Washington Apples and Lemon Drops. I was disappointed in her, needless to say.

Overall, the night was a bit slow. Only three dancers, not a whole lot of customers. Of course, that could be because the entire bay area was under a tornado and hail watch and the rain was kinda nasty for a while, but what do I care? It meant Rusty and Stacey weren't as stressed out and made it more fun for the rest of us. Early on, the only entertainment was the three gay chicks who came in, one of whom was a sexy-ass lipstick lesbian and could not stop giving her girlfriend lap dances as they sat at the stage. DJ was like, "Hey, you want a job?"

However, at about 8 or 8:30, I see an odd group walk in the front door from my vantage point across the bar. I say odd because I couldn't see anything past these four guys, including the ceiling. The few synapses that were still functioning fired: "basketball players."

Tampa doesn't have a pro team, so everyone knew they were college. Only question was, which one? Quick check of the University of South Florida's schedule and ... ladies and gentlemen, your West Virginia Mountaineers!

Now why, you ask, would D-I men's basketball players be at a strip club the night before a game? I'm just spitballing here, but maybe because their coach is Bob Huggins, who is to discipline what Jenna Jameson is to monogamy.

Regardless, in these cats stroll in their warmups, and they're immediately a hit. Jamie Smalligan is the only one I can identify for sure, because there's only one 7-foot white guy on their roster. His three compadres - and this is not guaranteed info, because I was tipsy and it's a dark-ass club, so no libel suits please - were Wellington Smith, John Flowers and Da'Sean Butler.

But, you say, those three aren't 21! To which I respond, they're elite athletes, so no one cares!

So they immediately are surrounded by everyone in the bar minus me and a couple of other customers. They may only have been drinking pop, although I was hella tempted to start sending rounds of Patron their way and then lay $500 on the next day's game.

So the guys are fun, and apparently have money. This was confirmed for me when the cats lined up at the stage and started making it rain on the girls. Not Benjis or Jacksons or anything, but there were certainly laying more money out there than I ever had in college. Either they all have wealthy families or the fine taxpayers of West Virginia, who dole out the cash for these guys' per diem, were instead financing the careers of Brooklyn, Chloe and Sparkle.

Anyone who says college athletes need to be paid is an idiot.

So the party is jumping so much, and these guys are spending so much money, that Rusty jumps on stage for a rare set. Now, she doesn't need to remove clothing. Pants are unbuttoned and ride a little lower, and the top is unbuttoned to let the twins breathe much easier. But she's definitely sexy and knows how to move, and the guys are now in awe. Literally. Jaws hanging.

Ish is officially off the chain. Most of the bar comes over to the stage to tip Rusty, including me and Stacey. (Hey, she's the owner. I know which side my bread is buttered on.) One of the girls gets on stage with loot, and her and Rusty get their freak on. The college kids are pretending they're Pacman Jones. Rusty's grinding on them in their seats. Good times for everyone.

After three songs, Rusty retires back behind the bar, but these guys have a curfew and have to get moving. Now, I don't know if a request or an offer was made, but the arrangement was made for Rusty to give each of these guys a private dance as well, whenever they weren't getting dances from one of the girls. So she's shuttling back and forth to the back for four more songs, grabbing the hand of a different kid each time. End of every song, some 6'6 20-year-old comes stumbling out of the back trying to play it off like he isn't in love.

Trust, Rusty can do the damn thang.

They rolled out about 10, which let us get into some serious birthday celebrations. ("Stacey, you have to at least let me breathe between Jager bombs!") There was cake, and Stacey got onstage dances from all the males in the club ... except me, cuz I don't get down like that. LOL

Final tally: eight hours in the club, $32 tab. And the residual intelligence not to lay money on USF.