However, I did get suckered into going out for one (read as: many) yesterday afternoon at about 2:30, which naturally means I didn't get home until midnight or so. I think I hit five different bars, and nothing was popping at any of them. Disappointing, actually. Then again, it was Sunday, so expectations shouldn't have been too high.
As a consolation prize, I'll pass on an episode that occurred about two weeks ago at a dive club about 10 minutes from my house. I go there on occasion because it's topless, there's no cover, there's a pool table and capncokes are $4. I mean, what else do you want?
Anyhow, I swung by there after work on a Monday or Tuesday because I had had a bad one and just wanted a couple of drinks to wind down. I was still in my shirt and tie, and fellas, I can't recommend that outfit enough if you're hitting a strip club and trying to get laid. Provided you're not at the ritziest joint in town where such attire is more common, it will get you plenty of positive attention and make you stick out from the crowd. Stick Quasimoto in a well-matched shirt and tie and he'd get to second base with a stripper.
When I sat down, I was one of two customers in the place; the other was a brotha who quite obviously was a hustler. He was geared out in Southpole and had a knot of 20s bigger than my fist. He was also looking for someone to shoot pool with and asked if I played. I said sure, and we started to chat during the game. Come to find out, he's from Gary, Ind. I'm from Chicago and actually lived in Hammond, Ind., for a while, so all of a sudden we're buddies.
Socrates, as I'll call him, was doing double shots of Hennessey chased by cocktails. He could hold his booze, but it quickly affected his pool game. He squeaked a win out in the first game as I worked the rust off, but got merked in the second. Yet we were becoming good pals the whole time, especially when he saw two of the girls eyeballing me pretty hard. His mission then became to get me laid. I know a sucker when I see one, so I rolled with it.
God bless him, he began spending money like water. He's throwing $20 in singles at the girls on stage every song, he's buying rounds for everyone ... dude was like a broken ATM spitting out cash. Naturally, the bartender and the girls root themselves to our corner of the bar. One of the girls was a petite Puerto Rican with natural D's who couldn't have weighed more than 100 pounds and had sexy-ass brown eyes. Another was a native Canadian with a wide smile and a thick ass. And the bartender looked like someone hit her with a bus then beat her in the face with a bag of nickels for half an hour. But she was digging Socrates, so I didn't care.
(By the way, I'm calling him Socrates cuz he was a philosophical drunk, one of my favorite kinds. If I remember correctly, he believes the X-Men comic book series was really about how the American government is trying to eliminate the black population in the U.S. with AIDS. Fun guy.)
At one point, he handed the bartender a $20 for singles, went to the stage before she came back with the money, came back to the bar and then thought he owed her a $20 for them. So basically, he'd handed her $40 for $20 and didn't know any better. He steps away again and looks at me and goes, "Your friend needs to be careful, because a shadier bartender would just take advantage of him and pocket this."
To which I replied, "Want to split it?"
Hey, if the dude's gonna be loose with his cash, I got no problem taking advantage of it. He'd already bought me three or four drinks, and I hadn't spent a dime on him. He was very obviously flush with "Pacman fever," and I'll be damned if the girls were gonna be the only ones making bank on it.
At some point, Socrates starts buying me dances, one each with the Butta Pecan Rican and the Maple Syrup Mami. Now, I don't do dances, and I would have much preferred he just hand me the $40, but he handed the loot directly to them and next thing I know they're grabbing my tie and dragging me to the back.
After about two hours or so, Soc had to roll out, hammered out of his gourd. I think his lady was calling him or something. I figure that he had to have dropped $400 or so, at least $70 of which was on me for booze and the dances. We traded numbers so that he could take me to the "real" clubs, but that crap got deleted out my phone the minute he stepped out. It was cool to shoot some pool and let him play baller for a night, but I don't think he's got friendship potential.
As for the girls, I struck out. The Canadian was leaving to go back to Canada a couple days later and I didn't want to spend the rest of the night in the club working her for some action that night. And I just didn't make any progress with the Puerto Rican. Hey, you can't win'em all.
Moral of the story? If some dumbass drunk at a strip club starts waving money around, huddle up with the bartender and dancers and plan a hustle. Ain't no shame in the game.
2 comments:
I shiver when I think about my trip there next month.
I'm going to try the tie thing at the ripper club.
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