This entry was posted on Saturday, February 16th, 2008 at 8:23 pm and is filed under General Word Vomit, Music-related. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
You know you’ve had a good night when you can walk out of a strip club with two phone numbers and more dollars than you had when you came in. It’s a bit like leaving Las Vegas really: I felt like a very lucky lady, but glad to have escaped with my shirt. Only in this case, my shirt happened to be on inside out.
It’s surprising I managed to have my shirt on at all, really. The dancers at the local gentleman’s club are rather friendly, particularly when you happen to be a pretty girl who is celebrating her birthday.
“I’m a very spiritual person,” said the Angelina Jolie look-a-like on my lap. Not the words you want to hear from a girl who is pulling your top off, and I would have laughed if she had told me next that she was only stripping to pay her way through nursing school. Fortunately, she instead leaned over to kiss my neck and purr, “I’ll bet your pussy tastes like cotton candy.”
Of all my strip club exploits, this one ranks at the top, trumped only by the “I got a stripper fired” legend that I doubt I’ll ever be able to live down (or up to, depending on your perspective). Girls really do get away with a great deal more action than guys at a strip club. Every time I welcomed a long kiss, every time I participated in play that you really only see in the beginning of flicks like “Where the Boys Aren’t”, I would look over the shoulder of my temporary new best friends and expect to see a bouncer lunging forward to break us up.
But they never did intervene, and I woke up this morning to a hickey, two phone numbers scrawled on a napkin, a faint red welt on my ass (don’t ask), and a pile of dollar bills stuffed in my bra.
Happy birthday to me.
Mind you, I certainly don’t take any of it serious. The attraction strip clubs hold for me is the complete lack of commitment I need to express. Though it probably makes me no better than the average guy, I view the women there only as a limited outlet for my sexual energy.
I suppose it’s a bit of a fuzzy distinction. But for a girl who is still broken hearted and grieving, fantasy is about the only thing I can handle. Actual conversation and full-out sex would add a level of intimate reality I’m just not ready for or interested in. My logic may be a bit faulty, but playing with strippers for a night lets me indulge my impulses in a controlled environment and keeps me from doing something really stupid, like calling any of my ex boyfriends for a one night stand.
Of course, the first thing I did when I stumbled back into my home that night was to drunk email my former guy. My feelings about the relationship haven’t changed, and I’m not okay yet, but I’m working on it.
Even if I have no intention of ever calling them, getting two strippers’ phone numbers isn’t such a bad way to start recovering.
(Note: a pic from the night is posted below. I took it before the festivities started, and since I’d hate to incriminate my two wonderful friends who took me out –or any of the new “friends” I made- it’ll be the only pic of the night I post. Sorry all!)
