During a night out, there is always a point at which you know you should just go home. Everyone has consumed their fair share of alcohol and is feeling happy. The logical thing to do would be to end the night on a positive note and go to bed. This is usually the juncture at which my group of friends will decide to go to a strip club. Nine times out of ten I'm the one leading the charge.
This particular night I, along with my coworkers Austin, Jessie, and Mary somehow manage to stumble into a gentlemen's club called Flashdancers. As far as strip clubs go, Flashdancers is one of the nicer establishments. No girls with C-section scars or heroin tracks on their arms; only the best T and A on display here. We find seats directly next to the stage and order a round of beers and shots. Our drinks arrive a few minutes later along with a tab for close to $160.
Seriously?! This has better be the best damn Bud Light I have ever had in my life.
It's not. Oh well.
Austin heads to the cashier to get us all singles to give to the dancers on stage. He returns with a stack of one hundred singles which we split amongst our group. Mary and Jessie, being the younger and less experienced members of the group, are hesitant to interact with the strippers. Instead, they waste time admiring the various styles of six-inch high platform shoes the girls are wearing.
I'm drunk and I want to see boobies! Immediately!
One of the dancers makes her way over to our side of the stage. As she moves closer to us, Mary and Jessie huddle close together like two children who have just seen the boogeyman. I, on the other hand, happily stick a few dollars into the girl's G-string. There is something magical about sticking money into the crack of another woman's ass. I like to imagine that my dollar is the final dollar needed for this woman to pay her rent or medical school tuition and that I have truly helped another human being. The hope that she doesn't have crabs or scabies does also cross my mind.
At some point, more shots are ordered. Everyone is starting to relax and enjoy themselves. Even Mary and Jessie are looking happier and less frightened.
"Anyone want a lap dance," Austin asks, suddenly.
Everything in my mind screams "bad idea," but "I do" comes out of my mouth instead. Austin pays the obligatory fee and I am lead off by a stunning blond. The blond, whose name turns out to be Diana, leads me to a roped off section of the club. I am nowhere near prepared for what is about to happen.
The lap dance starts off innocently enough; however it soon takes an unexpected turn. Diana suddenly starts massaging my crotch.
WTF?! I do not think this is what is supposed to happen.
I glance over at one of the rather large, angry looking bouncers and he doesn't seem the least bit concerned about the fact that I am being molested by one of the strippers. I shift in my seat in an attempt to get away from Diana's probing hand, which is by this point, trying to undo the zipper of my jeans. Maybe she gets the hint because she does move her hand away from my pants. Instead, she begins grabbing my boobs. Unsure of what else to do, I try to make conversation. "So, how long have you been working here?"
Evidently, Diana is more of a grabber than a gabber. She presses her finger to my lips, "Shhh." Then, she starts to suck on my neck like she's an extra on True Blood.
How is this even happening right now? I am probably going to need a hepatitis shot. And since I have no health insurance, I am going to have to pay for said hepatitis shot. Dammit!
This continues for two uncomfortably long songs with me hopping around to allow for minimal contact. This must be what jail is like. Finally, my "dance" is over. Despite my traumatized state, I thank Diana for her services and return to my friends. I imagine going home and taking the longest, hottest shower ever. A very Crying Game-esque shower.
We decide to call it a night much later than we had originally intended. Somewhere during the evening's festivities I had volunteered to cover the opening shift at work for Austin. After sleeping for what feels like twelve minutes, I awake to get ready for work. I, of course, oversleep and do not have time to shower before I leave for work. Gross, yes, I know.
Night out on the town: $126
Spending all day at work tired, hungover, and covered in stripper spit: PRICELESS!!