More Fun at Club E.

What can I tell you? Sex sells.

I’ve gotten a lot of positive feedback from my last post, which really isn’t that surprising. Bring beautiful women—some of whom are naked—and a hint of lesbianism into the fold, and suddenly people’s ears (or, in this case, eyes) perk up. Some of the comments fell along the lines of those offered by “TD,” Baby Joey’s girlfriend, in an e-mail last week:

“So…. After reading your newest blog, I could not help but think about just how I really thought I was a cool, down to earth girl but then came to realize that I may need to step up my coolness level.

WOW!!!!”

Then there was the convo I had with my dear, sweet mother:

Me: “Did you read my blog?”
Her: “Yes, I did. *sighs* Was that [Rock Star]?”
Me: *chuckles* “Yeah.”
Her: “Hmm.”
*pauses (as she prays, undoubtedly, that she won’t someday have to hear the story recounted at a wedding of said girl and her only child); shakes her head and leaves the room* “No wonder you’re broke.”

More common, though, has been this question: “How come you never wrote about that time when [insert random, crazy story about some friends and I at Club Erotica]?” Typically, the answer is: “Because I’m not a snitch.” Sometimes it’s best to look at Club Erotica like Las Vegas: it can be a lot of fun; it can be really expensive; and, more often than not, what happens there stays there. (Even now, I can sense some of the girlfriends and wives out there looking at their men from out the corners of their eyes. All I will say, ladies, is that if you trusted your man before you read this, then you can continue to do so. Because if he is the type of guy bold enough to do something unsavory at Club E. while he is with you, then it’s safe to say that you knew that long before I ever put these words to page.)

That said, there is one adventure that I was reminded of last week, that I think is safe for posting.

It was early in May 2007. The now-extinct Margarita Mama’s, a booming club in Station Square, was its typical Saturday night cauldron of booze, boobs, and beats. Haze, Tony, and I met up with “Party Fouler” [pretty much the only identity that I’m going to have to overprotect—at his request] at the back bar, where J-Dizzy was serving up mean drinks. Her boyfriend, as was his M.O., was hanging out at her bar and generously passing out shots for us. At one point he looked at Haze and I and said, “You guys like Patron?” He ordered the premium tequila, and J-Dizzy served up three liberal shots in small Dixie cups. Boyfriend then poured out the contents of his cup evenly into the other two cups, and said, “I don’t like this stuff—drink up.” I think the sentence in my head that was trying to find its way to my lips was, “One of those nights, huh?”

The four of us were well beyond tipsy by the time the lights came up at 2 a.m. A suggestion was made by someone (likely Party Fouler) that we go to Blush, a premium strip club in downtown. By that point in the night, it wasn’t going to take much persuasion to get the rest of us in agreement (it’s quite likely, though impossible to confirm, that PF’s whole sales pitch consisted of asking, “Titties?”). We piled into his car and headed over, only to be met by the sad realization that Blush closes at 2 a.m. (whereas some other such establishments in the area are open until 3 a.m. or later). Standing outside of the darkened club, PF dejectedly said, “Man—I just want to see some tits!” A girl sitting on the sidewalk by the doors while she waited for a bus overheard, and announced, “I’ll show my breasts for a dollar.” Almost instantaneously, four $1 bills appeared in front of her. She backed up her claim, and we thanked her for the impromptu exhibition.

Far from satiated, though, we then drove to Club E. This is where Party Fouler was about to earn his new alias. He offered to get Tony and me shots. I distinctly remember saying “No,” though it may have come out more like “Nnnnnnn.” He didn’t listen, though, and soon came walking over to us with two shot glasses and a dastardly grin. We threw them back like soldiers, and then began choking; he had bought us shots of the cheapest, most bottomshelf rum he could find, and was now giggling like a little child at the ruse.

After a few minutes of the main room’s dancers, PF and I went upstairs to get lap dances. [**Note: Club E. has a special set-up: the first floor is the main room, which is comprised of about three or four different stages, each with at least two girls (on a busy night) dancing; the second floor consists of a large room filled with recliners, where you can get a lap dance for $20, and the private rooms, where Tiny Dancer supposedly wanted to take Rock Star and me for a threesome.] When the girl at the cash register told him it was $125 for a private room, though, PF decided to audible. I told him I wasn’t paying for a room, but he quickly waved away my argument by saying, “Don’t worry, I’ll cover it.” One private room, coming right up.

When you buy a private room, you are given a bottle of champagne and any drinks that you want, all of which is “complimentary.” Sitting on the couch with a naked dancer in front of me, a Jack & Coke in one hand, and a glass of champagne in the other, I was grinning like a Cheshire Cat…and about to black out. PF told me only recently that, during at least part of that short blank in my memory, I was passed out. Sometimes booze overrules being in a dimly-lit room with a beautiful naked woman—to which, I’m sure, most guys out there can attest.

When I came to, I was in the backseat of PF’s car again, as we rode to Tom’s Diner in the South Side. At the restaurant, we had been seated for all of 5 minutes when that old familiar song came from my gut—“Get thee to the bathroom, it’s time to let goooo”. I went to the bathroom, which is only a small, unisex room with a toilet and a sink in it (like a bathroom in a private residence). How long I was standing at the sink vomiting, I don’t know. What I do know, though, is that eventually I heard the door open and close behind me. When I looked to my left, a random guy had come in and sat down on the toilet. “Really?” Without even glancing at me, he was calmly dropping bombs while, less than two open feet away from him, I spit remnants of cheap rum, Patron, champagne, Jack Daniels, and whatever I had eaten for dinner.

That reality served as a quick and sad commentary on my life, and sobered me up more than any regurgitation ever could.