My Weekend: Part II—Ticket No. 667

The morning after Part I of my weekend, I woke up with three vivid indicators of what had taken place the night before:

1. a beautiful Ecuadorian (“Lady Friend”) was cuddled next to me;
2. my head was pounding like a performance of “Stomp” was taking place inside of it;
3. Chappy was facedown on the couch in my living room.

And I still had a bachelor party to go to. Ouch.

I got to the bar (where the bus would be picking up all of us) an hour or so later than most of the other guys. When I walked in, Bill (the bachelor) had just been handed his gift: a t-shirt prominently displaying a picture of him and his bride-to-be, as she placed a big white flower behind his ear. One of our friends, “Bucket,” had randomly found the picture on a photographer’s website, and I think Bill wanted to crawl under a table when he saw it immortalized on a white tee. He definitely wasn’t too eager to put it on; he avoided doing so for about a half hour, ignoring our requests and leaving the shirt in the box. He resisted, until we finally issued a threat: we, as a group, would not let him onto the bus unless he had the shirt on. Would we really leave the bachelor behind, excluding him from his own party? Yes, yes we would.

He acquiesced, though, and a potentially ugly (but hilarious) scene was avoided. While I sat at the bar catching up with the guys, none of whom I had seen in quite some time, I noticed an exceptionally cute girl sitting on the other side of the bar. I pointed her out to Justin, who said she waitressed there during the week, and that she was only like 19 or 20. After a very gentlemanly round of “I’d like to [insert adjective for sexual intercourse] that,” we moved onto other topics. Suddenly there was a loud crash, and when our heads shot around to Tony’s place at the bar, we found him holding the bottom half of a tall draught glass, with beer all around him. He had knocked over the glass and caught the bottom as the top shattered on the bar. We were only seeing the end result—Tony holding the remains of the glass upright—though, and it gave the appearance that he had smashed the glass with his bare hand. From somewhere in our group came, “Beer was so good you had to crush the glass, Hulk?”

Once we were on the bus and headed towards the South Side, it became apparent that our bladders needed attention. Some braved the tricky art of using an “empty” while onboard a moving bus, while the rest of us held out. We made an unplanned stop at the White Eagle, since it’s one of the first bars on that end of Carson St. One of our friends (Frankie) ordered some beers, and had the bartender put a straw into Tony’s. Turning to him, Frankie said, “I don’t want you to drop another one and hurt yourself.”

When we left the Eagle, our bus got bogged down in the typical Saturday night traffic that you find on Carson (put 200+ bars, clubs, and restaurants onto a single, narrow stretch of road, and that’s what happens). We continued to pound beers until arriving at Jack’s Bar, which is at the opposite end of the drag. Jack’s was crawling with girls of the slore variety, and Bill’s t-shirt quickly became an attraction. Even if a girl walked past without any initial thought of signing it, one of us would quickly grab her and push her in his direction, Sharpie in hand. Some chose to write along the bottom hem of the shirt (on either side), with comments that were…risqué. There are a lot of dirty, dirty-minded girls here in Pittsburgh (no wonder I haven’t followed through on my vow to move away yet). One girl, Tiffany, wrote, “Bill, I’ll never forget that one night…” [Note: I promise you, Stacy, that he doesn’t know her; I was one of the guys who grabbed her and sent her his way.]

Around 11:30 pm or so, we headed back to the bus. While walking down the street, one of the bride’s cousins (Jesse) stopped next to a car sitting at the red light. A cute girl was in the passenger seat, so he motioned for her to roll down her window. When she did, he said, “Why don’t you and your friend come with us to the strip club?” (no one games better than drunk guys). I walked over to collect him, but before I could tell him to get on the bus, I heard my name called from inside the car. Leaning down, I saw HHM sitting in the driver’s seat. “Hey [HHM]! Sorry about him…want to come to the club?”

We headed towards Silky’s (without HHM and her friend), a strip club down the street from Club E. The reason for going there instead? The cover charge at Erotica is $20; at Silky’s it’s $10 (high rollers, all of us). The decision would prove to be fortuitous, though. While sitting at the stage living it up, a dancer with a roll of raffle tickets made the rounds. $2 entered you into a drawing for a free lap dance—I kid you not. Feeling good, I justified the purchase to myself by saying, “Eh, it’s only $2.”

Five minutes later, the DJ read off the winning number. “Six…six…seven.” I glanced down at the small orange ticket laying next to my beer. In my head it went something like this: “Let’s see; six, six, sev—woooooooowwwwwwwwwwwww!” If you were to tell me that I ran over to the DJ booth like a Florida retiree who was just told to “come on down” on The Price is Right, I wouldn’t be surprised. A 5’5” brunette walked over and grabbed my hand, and off we went up the stairs to the lap dance room. She told me to take anything out of my pocket that would interfere with her “dance,” so my wallet and keys went to the upstairs DJ. Then she told me to…adjust myself, to allow for maximum enjoyment [*sigh*…I can’t wait until my mother has to read that]. Off came her lingerie, and away we went. I wish I could remember the dancer’s name, because I would readily offer a high recommendation to anyone seeking to hire her. Or marry her.

Grinning, I returned downstairs to the “you lucky son of a b***h” comments of my boys. Some of the guys wanted to go to Club E, so we left Silky’s en masse. Though some of us (myself included) didn’t want to pay another $20 just to get in the door, we figured that we would sit on the bus and finish the beer we had on there while waiting. There was only one problem: the bus was nowhere to be found. Instead, we sat on the sidewalk across the street like the last six kids to get picked up after soccer practice.

For whatever reason, I reached into my pocket for my wallet, and had a gut-wrenching realization: I hadn’t retrieved my wallet and car keys from the DJ in the lap dance room at Silky’s. I can now tell you from experience, that nothing can make a large, drunk man sprint down a dark street like the unsettling thought of his wallet sitting vulnerably in an unfamiliar strip club.

Sunday morning, ten of us tossed around stories from the night that was. Eventually, talk came to the cute off-duty waitress at the bar where we had began the night while awaiting the bus.

Me: “What a piece of a**.”
Justin: “Yeah, she’s something.”
Bucket: “Wait, the young one sitting at the bar?”
Me: “Yeah. The smoking hot one.”
Bucket: “That’s my cousin!”
Jesse: “Oh yeah—I know her. She’s a big whore.”

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.

Legen—wait for it—DARY

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: "Where?"
Esq: "Guess".
Me: [jokingly] "Club Erotica."
Esq: "Yes."
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?

“Yep.”

James Thompson: Practice Squad Hero

This past Thursday was payday, and seeing that monthly boost to my bank account nearly brought a tear to my eye. I mentioned before that January is a rough month on finances, and being handed a paystub on the 31st is like crossing the finish line after a marathon. You may not have done as impressively as others around you, but at least you finished the race.

A wise man would consider his upcoming trip to Washington, D.C. and its high drinking expenses, and hold off on spending any of that paycheck until then. If you’re looking for the keyword of that sentence, it’s “wise.” I, therefore, decided to go out on the town with my friend Ashhad and some of his boys on Saturday night.

We met up at Ashhad’s apartment to pregame, and after two glasses of Hennessey and a glass of Smirnoff, I was feeling right. The five of us hopped in a cab and headed to Calico Jack’s, a newer bar/night club. The club’s name is a little misleading, given that it is also the name of a brand of spiced rum that serves as a discounted alternative to Captain Morgan. But there was nothing “discount” about the alcohol in this place. Allegheny County recently instituted a 10% “Drink Tax,” which has pushed the price of a domestic beer to $4 in the downtown nightspots. It’s not a big deal when you’re only buying for yourself; but when you’re buying a round of drinks for you and four other people, it adds up.

Given my state of mental lubrication, however, I quickly came to accept the new world order. This was my first visit to C-Jack’s, and I have to say I was impressed by the level of talent on hand. It’s located near Heinz Field and PNC Park on Pittsburgh’s North Shore, which is an up-and-coming area. And, being that it’s near the ball fields, it is often visited by both professional athletes and young women who dream of adding a famous name to their resume. Translation: the place is a groupie feeding frenzy. Hot girls were everywhere, most of them having chosen to wear the sluttiest outfit in their wardrobes. The bar in the back section of the club is a large rectangle, approximately 50 ft. by 15 ft. And nearly all the way around were girls dancing on top of it while scanning the crowd for any Pirate, Penguin, or Steeler that might be in attendance.

Ashhad and I were standing at the bar admiring these amateur performances (in between rounds of shots, which were being passed around like bullets in a warzone) when I spotted one lovely young lady at the far end. While the other girls were doing their best “look at me—I’m sexy,” baby girl was popping off with the “this p***y could be yours.” She was wearing a short skirt, and was bent over shaking her sincerities in guys’ faces. I called Ashhad’s attention to her, and at nearly the same exact moment he and I both said “She’s gotta be a stripper.” The clues were numerous: other girls were dancing in one spot, but she was working her way around the bar; she had a backless top on, and a large tattoo was etched across her back; and, without much suggestion, she pulled her top down to reveal her breasts, squeezing them to the drunken admiration of the guys below.

When she started dancing for one of Ashhad’s boys, she told him that her name was “Angel;” when she made her way over to me, I asked her the same question and she said “An—Jessica.” Our assessment proved accurate when she leaned over to my ear and said, “Come visit me at Club Erotica,” which is a popular local strip club. A female “friend” of hers then began rubbing Angel’s thigh while she danced, and offered to kiss her for our viewing—if we coughed up $5. I’m sure there were some inexperienced saps who fell for that offer at some point in the night; we, however, were not them. When the two girls figured this out, they began to kiss each other for the sheer love of the game. Bravo.

The best story of the night, though, took place an hour or so later. Some of my friends have this odd desire to pawn me off as a Pittsburgh Steeler when we’re out at bars and clubs. I have the stature, true. But, for some reason, they seem to care more about potentially landing a naïve groupie than they do about my desire to not have to lie to kick it. The only thing I hate more than the seedy, lying aspect of this ploy, are the Pittsburgh Steelers themselves. I hate them with a fiery passion typically reserved for villains in Shakespearean plays. Therefore, when one of my friends attempts to pass me off as one, I usually shoot a hole through the scam by quickly telling the girls that I am not now, and have never been, a professional football player. Usually. There have been a couple of notable exceptions, and the common denominator among these cases is intoxication. If I’m hammered, I’ll play ball. Figuratively. And literally too, I guess.

This was one of those nights. Ashhad found a girl standing by the bar, and quickly announced to her that I was a Steeler. I opened my mouth, about to shoot the lie dead, but he quickly countered with an adjustment to the story: I wasn’t on their travelling roster; I was just a practice squad player. I don’t know if it was this creative twist to a familiar shtick, the vague look of too-drunk-to-know-better twinkling in her eyes, or the six or seven shots coursing through my veins, but I decided I was game. It wasn’t about getting her sex, though. She was cute, but I wasn’t interested in slutting her out; it was just a game to play.

She asked me what my name was. I said, “Bob,” but not very convincingly. She challenged that I had made up the name, and I realized I needed to step up my game. I replied, “Yeah, I was just kidding. It’s James.” She bought it, and asked what my last name was. “Thompson.” Hook, line, and sinker. “What position do you play?” “Linebacker, but they put me at defensive end sometimes, depending on who we’re playing that week.” I’m firing on all cylinders now.

She told me that I was “so nice,” and not like the team’s stars. She had heard a rumor about Troy Polamalu, specifically. Apparently, he has been spotted around town picking up various slores at clubs, while his wife sits at home unawares. I don’t know the guy, and I really don’t doubt the validity of that claim. But I was in character. I was James Thompson, damn it, and no one was going to spread vicious rumors about my teammate. “Nah, don’t believe all of that hype, sweetie. People just like to make up stories. I know Troy—he’s totally committed to his wife" (in my head I suddenly regretted not knowing his wife’s name; using it right there would’ve been picture-perfect).

Now, to know me is to know just how big a deal this is. I told this story to TJ on the phone on Sunday, and he was awestruck by my commitment. Well, his exact words were “You must’ve been HAMMERED.” But I like to believe that what he really meant was, “That is a fantastic dedication to scene and character portrayal.”

Expect nothing less from James Thompson.