A fictional account of what me at a strip club might be like

Feel free to think less of me for this blog.

Warning: I’ve gone avant-garde. I don’t believe in linear story-telling.

Note: I’ve excluded specific names, if you want to be acknowledge I’ll be more than happy to oblige. This goes for you too, ‘Mandy.’

For those of those in the know, play this as your companion music for reading:

I’ve never been to a strip club, but I’ve heard about them. If I ever went, I imagine it might be like this.

The first time I went to The Club House I thought I would hate it. I thought I would be uncomfortable and shy and terrified.
“I just don’t know if I want to go, man.”
Chris: “Why?”

“Cause, there’s going to be naked girls, just….walking around.”
“Yep.”
“And that will make me uncomfortable.”
“Nope.”
“Oh. Okay, well, let’s go then.”

My first time was their anniversary party. Every girl was working. I was a little put off at first, but a couple of free scotches took care of that. Soon I was playing with the big dogs. By the end of the night I was taking shots with strangers and screaming at the stage.

It took a third trip before I got my first lap-dance.

My friend bought it for me from a nice young lady who’s stage name is Mandy. Mandy dances to 3 by Britney Spears.

She also hates me, because I found out she went to UNT and every time she walked past me I would screech and hold up my eagle claw.
I was just trying to be spirited.
I could have been giving her sorority sign instead. Burn.
(It probably doesn’t help that I bite my bottom lip whenever I see her on campus and hum some Brittany).

For those of you that don’t know The Club House is BYOB and all nude, and to answer your second question: Yeah, it’s pretty much Disney World.

It had been a while since we had all gone together and we decided on a date. Two days before the event my Mike texts me:

We going to the club house on Friday?
Why is there a question mark at the end of that sentence?
Sorry. We going to the club house on Friday.
Better.

Mike and my prepare for the strip club like professions.

Me: Dude, Chris, where is your beer?
Chris: Dude, what are you going to do with all that beer?
Mike: All what beer?

Chris: You guys have two cases.
Me: Yeah. That one is his though. I say, pointing at Mike’s beer.
Mike: Yeah, and that other one is Frisco’s.
Chris simply sighs.
Me: Plus, after he finishes that and I finish this, we only have this one bottle of scotch.
Mike: Yeah, Frisco’s right.
Mike and I have a very serious commitment to rowdiness.

I have four rules for strip clubs:

1.No matter who it is, if I get asked for a dance during a White Zombie song, I have to say yes.

2.No matter how cute the girl is, she has to talk to me for at least one song before asking me for a dance, otherwise I say no. (Rule 1 overrides Rule 2)

3.Strippers are strippers, not dancers. I came to a strip club, not Europa. (Although I prefer the term ‘Pole-dancer’)

4.Strippers don’t get free beer.

A girl covered in tattoos, sleeves, leggings, everywhere, comes out dancing to Johnny Cash and I’m in love. When she finally comes over to talk to me she says:
“Can I have a Shiner?”
“Sure.”
Son of a bitch. She chugs it and goes to the back nine (the back nine are the side stages at strip clubs that the strippers have to spend a ‘round’ on before coming out onto the floor for dances…or so I’ve been told). I go to her and talk to her (keep in mind I’ve never really been to a strip club, this is just me fictionalizing).

“HII!” she says “My name’s Bradley! What’s your name!?” (The fact that she picked a dude’s name for her stage name makes me very uncomfortable).
“Um. Cornielous.”
“Cornielious! Hi!” Great. The love of my life is almost as smart as my coffee machine with the built in timer. I leave and move back to my chair. Screw beer, I switch to scotch.
A few shots later the night is saved. Some girl comes out onstage wearing aviators and dancing to Highway to the Danger Zone.
Sure.
It’s like those “Spider saved holiday” books, except it’s a stripper.

I fall in love all over again. I’m told the reason I went into debt is this girl, but I don’t remember. Lucky for me, Mike sold six of my beers to some guys for twenty bucks. At least one of those 7 lap dances was free.
(The following was recounted to me, because I don’t remember it and I also don’t go to strip clubs):

She’s cute. She’s in my lap and we’ve been talking for a couple of songs. She has the ability to move her boobs without using her hands Triple H style. She takes the beer out of my hand and takes a swig without even asking.
“Give me back my fucking beer, bitch.” I get slapped. “What the fuck, slut.”
She decides this is an opportune time to shotgun the beer she just drank back to me.
Godbless this place.

At this point, you might be asking ‘but, Frisco, why always the club house?’
Well, friends, it’s simple. The Club House is a freak show. I can see naked girls on the internet, but c-section scars, those are hard to come by. We went to Baby Dolls once and all the girls looked like people I went to high school with. I don’t need that on my conscience.
(Freaks come out at night.)

My favorite strip club moment goes like this:

A very cute stripper walks by:
Can I have one of ya’lls beers?
Mike: Sure…2 bucks.

You’re my hero, dude.

The thing I’ve often wondered is what strippers do when they have to take a shit. Those girls work long hours, certainly it happens. Do they keep wet-wipes in the back? I don’t know. Perhaps a bidet? (Speaking of hilarious concepts, were you aware there are toilets with built in bidets? Do I smell the greatest prank of all time?)

What do you think?

To sum up my non-strip-club experience here here’s a snippet of conversation:
We’re sitting around as a fine young lady climbs to the top of the pole, lets go with her hands, flips upside down then slides. She hits the stage and claps her massive heels together.
C: You can’t deny it!
Me: Mike, can you deny it?
Mike: Nope.
Me: He can’t deny it, C.
C: I know it.

What’s everyone doing Friday?

Tags: beer, Brittany Spears, Chris Eanes, dancing, Frisco, Frisco Macae, Mandy the stripper, pole-dancing, proper bidet usage, rules, scotch, strip club, strip-clubs, strippers, stripping, White Zombie