Just Like Old Times

Saturday I’ll be attending a friend’s bachelor party; and, to be honest, I have no idea how this will turn out.

I’ve been a part of two previous stag parties involving this circle of friends. The first time, I (1.) had a stripper hit on me while she was being “prepped” for a whipped cream race; (2.) later came out of a blackout leaning against a van in an obscure residential section of the South Side at 4 a.m., alone and sans cell phone; and (3.) slept on my mother’s patio (in plain view of all of our neighbors) because my keys and car were at Tony’s (I cabbed it home from the South Side). The second time, well...a lot of things happened, but I’ll remain silent (as per the “no snitching” clause I mentioned in my last post). TJ was there that night, though, and I’m sure he’ll attest to the level of entertainment that took place.

Given this, and the fact that my recent weeks have been tame (or lame, by alky standards), I figured I’d write about a bachelor party experience from 2005. This means, though, that yet another On the Rocks story will revolve around strippers—I’m still undecided as to whether that falls under “sad” or “awesome.” It’s such a thin line sometimes. But I digress.

The party was in February ’05, and was being thrown for my friend’s fiancé. I knew the groom-to-be, but not very well; in fact, my boy Nick was the only real “crew” of mine that would be in attendance. We started with some beers and shots at “Fiancé’s” house, and then packed into an old school bus and headed off into the night.

Fiancé isn’t into big and flashy clubs, so the itinerary focused on smaller, local bars in the area. After stopping at a couple, and slowly eroding at our collective consciousness, we made our first stop at a strip club. It was a small place called “The Wall”—I suspect that the original draft of that name began with the words “Hole in.” It featured one main stage, which doubled as the bar, and a smaller stage in the back room. The dancers weren’t atrocious, but they weren’t Jessica Alba in “Sin City,” either. A lithe, 5’4” blonde caught the attention of some of those in our party, and soon enough I had caught hers. I’d like to tell you there was some kind of smooth playa rap going on that won her heart, but there wasn’t. We just gradually evolved from smiling to playful flirtation to…me sitting with her at the bar while she showed me pictures of her young son.

If you’re scratching your head right now, I understand. It’s typically my reaction when I think about it—and I lived it.

She gave me her phone number, and eagerly let me snap the picture to the right with my cameraphone (yes, that’s my hand). The guys collected me before heading back to the bus, as it was time to move to Filly Corral. A fairly popular club in the area, the Corral has some significant talent on its roster. It’s rather unique, though, in that they don’t serve alcohol (or at least they didn’t back then). This would prove to be salt in my wound.

As we filed in, our eyes scanned across the several stages, each featuring multiple beauties in various phases of undress. When we neared the stage at the back of the room, though, I felt that the dancer spinning around the pole on the left side of the stage looked strangely familiar. Then it hit me. The words “F**k, f**k, f**k, f**k!” came out uncontrollably. One of Fiancé’s friends asked me what was wrong. Hesitantly, I leaned over to him and motioned towards Dancer. “I think that’s…my ex-girlfriend.”

Being intoxicated and of less-than-sound eyesight at that moment, though, I was skeptical. The lights in the club were dimmed, after all, and I hadn’t seen my ex in nearly four years. And Christina had always been an overly self-conscious girl, not exactly the type you would expect to take her clothes off and dance for ogling strangers. I decided (or maybe just hoped) that I was mistaken. “Nevermind, I’m drunk. She looks like her, but I don’t think it’s her.”

I walked over to the right side of the stage, where Nick and the father of the bride were standing. I stood with my back to the stage as I talked to them, determined to erase the unpleasant thoughts I had just had. After a few minutes, however, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and was suddenly face-to-face with Dancer. She grinned and said, “Don’t you remember me?”

*flatlines*

“Hi, Christina.”

Instantly, I began to really hate the lack of alcohol in the place. I needed whiskey, damn it, and I needed it fast.

We chatted for a few minutes, catching up. She had begun her career as a way to pay for college (it sounds cliché, but I’m fairly certain she was being truthful—her stepfather was an a**hole who refused to help her pay for school) not long after we broke up. She claimed she was still self-conscious when offstage; onstage, though, she felt like she “became another person.” That’s putting it lightly. I eventually worked up the nerve to sit down at the edge of the stage while she performed. And she giggled while showing me all of the skills that she had acquired over the previous few years.

I’m sure lots of guys have run into an ex before; and you may have stared at her wistfully, slowly remembering everything that made you fall for her way back when. How many of you, though, have gotten to slide a one dollar bill in her garter as thanks for the memories?