Sunday, April 06, 2008

Private Dancer, Dancer for Money

"I'm your private dancer
A dancer for money
I'll do what you want me to do...."
-Tina Turner

As it is often documented in these tales of Greatness, I'm a huge fan of tittays. However, it may come as a surprise to the readers of my scribin' that I'm not a huge fan of strippers.

This weekend, I went to a bachelor party and there may or may not have been strippers involved -I can't really say. Guy Code and the fact that I woke up wearing only my tighty whiteys and a pair of dress shoes in an alley without one of my kidneys, will not permit me to comment on that aspect of the evening. The idea that strippers might've been involved though, really got me thinking as I recovered in a bath tub of ice at home.

I find that strippers are a lot like the glittery animated gifs I've decided to litter this page with, they're pretty and flashy, but at the end of the day you can't really do anything with them. I'm probably not being fair. In the spirit of full disclosure (so to speak), I really haven't had the best track record with strippers....

The date was August 12, 1997, and I had just perfected my Ricky Schroder Silver Spoons hair-flip. More importantly, I was 18 years, 2 months, and 4 days old. Finally of age to take classy draws from big cigars, buy instant lottery tickets, and most importantly, get my first glimpse at real live funbags. Yeah, funbags.

So naturally, I gathered my posse and we headed to, "the BEST Gentlemen's Club in North Central Ohio [For Left Handed, Diabetic Albinos]!" Aka'd as The Top Hat, you know, 'cause they're classy and gentlemanly-like. Upon arrival, we strolled in like we owned the joint -because the place was a trailer, the kind you can buy at Home Depot for the price of a Pinto and trailer hitch, and we totally had that kind of scratch.

We took our place at the VIP booth (which I created by writing "VIP" on a napkin with a Sharpie I had brought for this very purpose) with class and distinction: picture The Sandlot meets Reservoir Dogs. After a few minutes there, the ladies were swarming us, cooing, "hey Big Boy, you want a dance?" To which I aloofly replied, "be cool, baby Daddy's perusing the merchandise." And then I choked on my Swisher Sweet.

After taking in the landscape, I made my choice. I decided I would drop the sizable $5 for the price of a lapdance on Crystal, a stringy haired, cigarette breathing vixen with a tummy of questionable firmness. I let her know my choice by using the Special Forces sign for "I'm watching you," and knocked over my Mr. Pibb and ended up poking myself in the eyes in the process. Then the magic began.

To this day, I don't really know if what happened to me that night was legal. What I do know is, despite the fact I was still fully clothed, Crystal claimed that I had made her preggers. Not knowing anything of baby-making, we married, moved into my parents basement, and over the next nine months she used a series of tasteful throw pillows stuffed under her shirt to simulate the gestation process. At the conclusion of the nine months, upon discovering her deception -utterly crushed- I kicked Crystal out, but kept her tastefully rhinestoned thongs to wear sell in order to cover the costs of buying new sofa pillows.

Seeing strip clubs as the root of this evil, I vowed that I would never step foot in another one ever again....

Until 2007, when on a business trip to Wisconsin, a client and my good friend, Erick, decided that they wanted to head to Scores Gentleman's Club. Now, given my hardened view of strippers suffered at the hands methol-manipulating, Crystal, I had not set foot in a strip club since I had sworn it off years prior. But a client's a client. Overtaken with the shakes, the quakes, and the takes, I headed to the hotel bar where we were staying, demanded that the bartender turn on Golden Girls, and began drinking till I thought Rue Mcclanahan was hot, which surprisingly only took twenty minutes.

Then off we flew. By the time we got there, the world was a haze. All I remember was being greeted by a man with slicked back 80's hair and a Mandarin collared tux jacket. "Stupid collar," I mumbled as I headed to the pisser. When I got back to the table, after a few Sapphire & tonics, all I really remember is waking up in my clothes the next morning with my phone ringing loudly. I pick it up:

Erick: What the fuck were you doing last night?

PG: Excuse me? What time is it?

Erick: As if it wasn't bad enough that you were chatting up those girls like you were at the soda shop, you then told them to go put on sweatpants so that they were more comfortable, had them do "trust falls" from the stage to prove that people support them, and made us leave the joint so that you and the girls could get midnight manicures. [I look to my cuticles, they look incredible]

PG: Dude, I'm sorry.

Erick: Sorry doesn't put a tasty bottom on my lap does it? [SLAM]

You know what? Erick was right, my "sorry" did not put a tasty bottom on his lap!

So, that my friends is the record as of today. I think I give up when it comes to strippers. At this rate I'll probably end up naked with a ball gag, tied to a tree, covered in peach preserves, missing my other kidney, and I just don't think I could live through that. No really, physiologically, I need the other kidney to live.

1 comment:

Erin Garrigan said...

Entertaining and slightly creepy as always! Good stuff. :-)


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