Chapter three of "Here's Proof That My Life is Not Great" takes us on a journey of going to a dive strip club on a random night in Suffolk County. My supporting cast included good friends from Suffolk, one wearing a hat, the other asking what type of 18 year old Scotch they have.
As we nestled into the stools, I already became uncomfortable with my surroundings. My friend was asked to remove his hat, and he became quite agitated. I cleverly positioned myself between my friend and the winner of a Bill Gates look-alike contest. I figured this way an employee would not be able to wedge herself between the two of us to start "talking."
As much as I like to pay for someone's affection, I was not interested in doing so this evening, especially since my body understands fake-ness, more than I wish to describe on the internet.
I do understand, and believe in paying for services rendered, especially when entering one of these establishments. Exotic dancing is quite cultural, and they should be reimbursed for their creativity.
Interpretive dances to songs such as Guns and Roses, 'Welcome to the Jungle,' require death defying moves, like the "run and jump onto the pole and then spin around" move. Sara Mappell invented this move in 1956 at the Chattanooga Shoe Shine, the show me state's first gentleman's cabaret.
In this particular club, the stage was behind the bar, and midway between the song, they collected their tips. I remembered commenting on how marginally unattractive the first dancer was, and how she resembled the upside down face boy on Family Guy. Then I imagined what she must be thinking,
" Ugh, I got to go over to Quasimodo over there with the detergent stained Met's polo. F my life."
She came by and summoned me to put a dollar between her breasts, and I awkwardly obliged. I ended the transaction by mumbling, "Thank you, ma'am." - not knowing what else to say.
The next dancer was a little more portly, and I was amazed at how limber she was. I also could imagine what she said to her colleague,
"Is fat neck Met's guy a good tipper?"
Well made her way over to our area, and I wanted slide the dollar across the bar, not having to go through the motions that Bill Gates so lovingly enjoyed. The dancer also invited the tip between two large bosoms. I once again, reluctantly obliged.
This time however, my whole hand disappeared into the flesh, where she squeezed them together almost breaking two of my fingers. After a physically exruciating 2 seconds, I started to panic as I pulled my hand out of the cavern with some force.
"Easy, that's my pitching hand," I said. I already worked up a story that I was in triple A ball (and not on an amateur men's team that plays on high school fields.) I also had a story in my pocket if one of my friend's were to be a hero and buy me a private dance.
Since I don't "enjoy" these private dances too much, I had come up with a few doozies over the years.
"I'm sorry, you're very pretty, but I'm on medication for this football related knee injury"
"You're doing a great job, but I just found out my wife was cheating on me with a midget"
"Oh boy, you're a lovely gal, but I'm soooo drunk"
"You're very good, I'm just very in love with my wife"
After the woman had sucked in my friend's hand, we both looked at each other and decided that we were ready to go, and that this was just a waste. Finally. The third friend had been entrenched in a conversation with a dancer that was soliciting a dance for a good half hour. Satisfied with getting her real name and her number, he decided it was a "win" and that it was ok to leave. He never bought a dance from her.
Bill Gates had two girls around his arms and I realized that this was my league. Super. I quickly became excited that 24 was on that night, and that I couldn't wait to watch it.
Stay tuned for chapter 4, when I go to IKEA to look for dressers.
ck
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment