This past Thursday was a mindbender of a night.
To start the story, though, I’m going to take you back to the prior Monday, around lunchtime. My boy, “Esq,” who has been dating the best friend of a girl who I’ve been casually dating, called me as I was standing in line at Quiznos. When I answered, the first thing that I heard was a long, deep sigh.
Me: "What’s up?"
Esq: "Guess where these girls want us to take them this week."
Me: [jokingly] "Club Erotica."
Me: *silent, while staring blankly at a guy behind the counter, who probably thought I was having a stroke*
Club E, as it’s affectionately known around town, is the city’s most popular strip club. In other words, I was about to go on a date…to a strip club. Even now, days after it’s all happened, typing/speaking those words still leaves me speechless.
Mind you, this wasn’t, “Let’s go to dinner and a movie, maybe some dancing; and then at the end of the night—maybe, just for fun—we’ll stop by a strip club.” No, ladies and gents, this was, “Take us to dinner, and then let’s go see some naked girls.” Shy, shrinking flowers, these two are not.
While I’ve made quite a few visits to Club E. in my day, it has never been before 12 a.m. Typically, the stop has come as the grand finale of a friend’s bachelor party; 20 drunken, slurring guys and myself falling off a party bus (usually leaving behind the bachelor, who is passed out and/or vomiting on the back of the bus) and rolling into the club, each of us expecting dancers to fall in love with us and take us backstage for a “Penthouse Letters” story. But on this night, we arrived around 9 p.m., stepping out of a luxury SUV with two attractive girls at our side…expecting dancers to fall in love with them.
Esq’s date, “Shock B,” was a strip club rookie, and needed some schooling on tipping etiquette. On her initial attempt at tipping a dancer, she clumsily put an unfolded dollar into the garter, knocking other dollars out of the way as she did. Esq told the dancer, “I apologize for her; it’s her first time.” Then Shock tossed a folded-up bill at another dancer as she writhed in front of Esq. At one point I told my date (“Rock Star”), “I think [Shock B] is using her dollars as ammunition to get rid of the dancers.”
As dancers came past and performed for us, most paid close attention to Shock and Rock, who are each quite beautiful. One stripper had a coy smile on her face as she was plying her trade, which prompted me to say, “You look so shy.” Her smile turned into a bit of a grin. She laughed and, while glancing over at Shock, said, “Trust me—I’m not shy.” Later, when we told a 5’1” blonde—“Tiny Dancer” [I couldn’t resist]—that Shock was on her first strip club visit, she had us place a dollar in Shock’s cleavage. Then she retrieved it—by leaning forward and squeezing together her own breasts against Shock's. Esq and I exchanged a telepathic fist bump.
Another dancer—a tall girl with curly blonde hair—took a special shining to Rock Star. She leaned off the stage, placing her hands on Rock’s thighs; then she brushed past her, rubbing her curls and chest on my date’s face. Awesome. Rock told her, “You look so familiar.” They soon realized that they had met once before, when Rock was working at a bar as a Bud Girl. “Curly” had made another obvious pass at her back then, dancing provocatively between Rock’s legs. Destiny, it seems, had brought them back together. A little later in the night, I felt someone swing my arm off of the back of Rock’s chair. It was Curly, who then squeezed between us and sat down on Rock’s lap. When she would look at me, I instantly recognized the tone of her eyes: “You don’t deserve her, and I’m going to steal her away from you.” I’ve used that same look a few times myself; most guys have. To get it from an exotic dancer sitting in my date’s lap, though, was surreal.
Tiny Dancer was also a big fan of Rock Star, and was about to prove it. I had commented earlier about how hot she was (I even said she looked a little like Jaime Pressley, but the others disagreed), and Rock took note. Late in the night, stoked up on the torrent of rum & Cokes that I was ordering for her, she leaned over to me:
Rock: “Do you want me to ask her how much it costs for a threesome?”
Me: *silent as angels hum beautiful hymns*
Snapping out of it, I smiled at her. “You’re full of s**t—you’re not going to ask her that.” Rock is one of those girls who like to tease and talk trash, so I smelled a fakeout. But sure enough, she motioned Tiny Dancer over and whispered something to her. Tiny Dancer looked at her with a devilish grin, and then looked at me and said, “$125 for a private room.”
It’s times like that when I curse my lack of deeper financial resources.
Knowing stripper protocol, though, I understood the likelihood that she was just making a play for cash, without any intention of doing anything explicit. I’ve been in the private rooms before, and $125 is the standard rate. This information was probably all that kept my credit card from freeing itself from my wallet and flying straight up on stage. I declined the offer, and she said, “Oh well.” Making one last attempt to sway me, Tiny Dancer slowly slid her hand behind Rock’s head and began pulling her forward towards her face. When Rock realized what was happening, she struggled to free herself, saying, “No nooo!” Tiny Dancer seemed a little sad that she didn’t get the taste she was looking for, but she quickly got over it—by cozying up next to one of the solitary schmoes elsewhere in the club.
Just this afternoon, I asked Rock Star what she would have done if I had ponied up the $125 and Tiny Dancer was sincere about breaking off the ménage a boogie. Her response?