As I am terribly bored and currently have no one to torture here in the clinic, I thought that I would write my next posting for you, my hypothetical chum.
It occurred to me that I have never detailed my experiences with There4 and his favorite shake-joint. I shall correct this at once.
Now, you wouldn’t know it to look at him but There4 is fairly experienced at the whole strip-bar culture thing whereas I have only gone just a few times. (And have never been all that impressed, btw) By day, he is a mild-mannered Asian guy with a penchant for Warhampster, but, following him into this particular establishment you will witness a startling transformation. When he rolls into the joint, he does so in true rock-star fashion, my hand to God. All the employees know him by his strip-club pseudonym and he is immediately escorted to his favorite spot… by the stage, of course. The waitress hurries over and, just as often as not, the dancers will buy him drinks.
-just an aside here: as you may or may not know, none of the dancers or wait staff use their real names when introducing themselves. Its always a stage name in order to throw off the creeps and weirdoes that frequent those places. In response to this, I decided that I (and everyone that came with me) should not only have a stage name themselves but also an entire back story ready to go at a moments notice. For example: My name was ‘Gunnar Johansen’ (sEn, not sOn, mind you) from Queensland, Australia, mate. Yeah. My accent, while far from perfect (I would drift between a Monty Python ‘G’day, Bruce’ aussie accent to a decidedly Mike Myers-esque Scottish brogue) was in the very least fluid enough to keep up all night. That wasn’t the hard part… I’ll get to the hard (heh) part in just a moment.
The evening begins with scantily-clad girls sidling up to the table and sitting on a random lap. I should state that there were several ladies here that Ther4 was on a more-than-friendly basis with and whoever wasn’t dancing or schmoozing some poor Joe would be planted at the table.
Now, just for clarification, let me say this: Some of the awful stereotypes you have heard about strippers are true, although there were a couple… say ‘Autumn’ for example, that turned out to be real sweethearts and with whom I now have a lasting friendship. It was ‘Autumn’ btw that after she started dating a friend of mine and realizing my discomfort with her nakedness (naked-ity?), delighted in torturing me with her presence. Nude. In a very, very not-clothed way. She would sit on my lap (something she had never done until she recognized my discomfort) and ask for advice on various musculo-skeletal issues, the answers to which would often require a ‘hands-on’ explanation. Now, anyone who knows anything about what I do for the army knows that it is ALL very hands-on, all very physical. You have to be comfortable with your personal space in order to do anything effectively in PT. Needless to say, there was a lot of pantomime involved, all of it very ‘hands-above-the-table’, if you will.
-Here’s a great question that I never thought I would have to ask: Have any of you men out there ever tried to keep an erection from happening for a prolonged period of time? Like, for over an hour? Its sort of the erectile equivalent of an endurance sport. Like soccer, really.
On one particular occasion (the very last time I went, as a matter of fact) I got to witness what can only be described as a ‘stripper feeding frenzy’. I was broke from having to buy a Passat and my good chum There4 was flush and he wanted to go ‘make it rain’ but didn’t want to go alone. So there I was with There4 buying my drinks (and a bunch of drinks for the ladies too) when I realized there was hardly anyone in the club with us. The ladies must have noticed this as well as they all began to congregate around our table. I looked up and There4 was nowhere to be found. He had ambled off to chat up a bartender he liked leaving me, penniless, at the mercy of voracious strippers.
-It should be noted here that there are rules for going to strip club, the first of which I have already mentioned. There second is this: if you enjoy the naked-osity of the ladies dancing (or whatever) then you MUST pay. Normally, it works like this- If you are looking up at the stage and the dancer makes eye contact with you, you are then obligated to approach the stage and show your appreciation by way of dollar bills. You see? Looking at the stage means you were enjoying the show, enjoying the show means you have to pay. The trick is to enjoy the show WITHOUT making eye contact with the dancer, that is, unless you WANT to go up and tip her and perhaps get a little extra for your efforts. It should also be noted here that while some of the dancers were friends of ours (and sweetie-pies to boot) none of the nice ones were working there that night. Yikes.
I gently extricated myself from the gyrating horde and found my wayward friend who, after a bit of explaining, convinced me that I needed to play the ‘bad guy’ and rescue him from the women who were circling his table by proclaiming that I needed him to take me back to the bay as I had yadda yadda yadda to do in the morning. The plan went off without a hitch until I proclaimed that he needed to take me back to the bay in front of the ladies.
In retrospect, I am able to visualize the scene and describe it like this: It was like a shot out of a Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom episode where the female lions had already injured the prey and were taking turns running it down. The gazelle’s only chance is to reach the safety of the river bank but the water’s edge is soooo far away and the lionesses are fast and hungry.
In the end, the leader (the ALPHA-stripper, if you will) bartered a settlement in which we would be allowed to leave but only after we had tipped every woman at the table, the rationale being that we saw them all nekkid and therefore owed them for the service. Thankfully There4 stepped up and paid my portion as well as his own as I was totally prepared to trip him as I ran out of the place, leaving him to the lionesses and humping it back to the bay.
It shouldn’t be a wonder to you, dear reader, why I didn’t go back. The good news is that I got to see my dear friend ‘Autumn’ one last time before we headed north. Karaoke saves the day, once again.
It occurred to me that I have never detailed my experiences with There4 and his favorite shake-joint. I shall correct this at once.
Now, you wouldn’t know it to look at him but There4 is fairly experienced at the whole strip-bar culture thing whereas I have only gone just a few times. (And have never been all that impressed, btw) By day, he is a mild-mannered Asian guy with a penchant for Warhampster, but, following him into this particular establishment you will witness a startling transformation. When he rolls into the joint, he does so in true rock-star fashion, my hand to God. All the employees know him by his strip-club pseudonym and he is immediately escorted to his favorite spot… by the stage, of course. The waitress hurries over and, just as often as not, the dancers will buy him drinks.
-just an aside here: as you may or may not know, none of the dancers or wait staff use their real names when introducing themselves. Its always a stage name in order to throw off the creeps and weirdoes that frequent those places. In response to this, I decided that I (and everyone that came with me) should not only have a stage name themselves but also an entire back story ready to go at a moments notice. For example: My name was ‘Gunnar Johansen’ (sEn, not sOn, mind you) from Queensland, Australia, mate. Yeah. My accent, while far from perfect (I would drift between a Monty Python ‘G’day, Bruce’ aussie accent to a decidedly Mike Myers-esque Scottish brogue) was in the very least fluid enough to keep up all night. That wasn’t the hard part… I’ll get to the hard (heh) part in just a moment.
The evening begins with scantily-clad girls sidling up to the table and sitting on a random lap. I should state that there were several ladies here that Ther4 was on a more-than-friendly basis with and whoever wasn’t dancing or schmoozing some poor Joe would be planted at the table.
Now, just for clarification, let me say this: Some of the awful stereotypes you have heard about strippers are true, although there were a couple… say ‘Autumn’ for example, that turned out to be real sweethearts and with whom I now have a lasting friendship. It was ‘Autumn’ btw that after she started dating a friend of mine and realizing my discomfort with her nakedness (naked-ity?), delighted in torturing me with her presence. Nude. In a very, very not-clothed way. She would sit on my lap (something she had never done until she recognized my discomfort) and ask for advice on various musculo-skeletal issues, the answers to which would often require a ‘hands-on’ explanation. Now, anyone who knows anything about what I do for the army knows that it is ALL very hands-on, all very physical. You have to be comfortable with your personal space in order to do anything effectively in PT. Needless to say, there was a lot of pantomime involved, all of it very ‘hands-above-the-table’, if you will.
-Here’s a great question that I never thought I would have to ask: Have any of you men out there ever tried to keep an erection from happening for a prolonged period of time? Like, for over an hour? Its sort of the erectile equivalent of an endurance sport. Like soccer, really.
On one particular occasion (the very last time I went, as a matter of fact) I got to witness what can only be described as a ‘stripper feeding frenzy’. I was broke from having to buy a Passat and my good chum There4 was flush and he wanted to go ‘make it rain’ but didn’t want to go alone. So there I was with There4 buying my drinks (and a bunch of drinks for the ladies too) when I realized there was hardly anyone in the club with us. The ladies must have noticed this as well as they all began to congregate around our table. I looked up and There4 was nowhere to be found. He had ambled off to chat up a bartender he liked leaving me, penniless, at the mercy of voracious strippers.
-It should be noted here that there are rules for going to strip club, the first of which I have already mentioned. There second is this: if you enjoy the naked-osity of the ladies dancing (or whatever) then you MUST pay. Normally, it works like this- If you are looking up at the stage and the dancer makes eye contact with you, you are then obligated to approach the stage and show your appreciation by way of dollar bills. You see? Looking at the stage means you were enjoying the show, enjoying the show means you have to pay. The trick is to enjoy the show WITHOUT making eye contact with the dancer, that is, unless you WANT to go up and tip her and perhaps get a little extra for your efforts. It should also be noted here that while some of the dancers were friends of ours (and sweetie-pies to boot) none of the nice ones were working there that night. Yikes.
I gently extricated myself from the gyrating horde and found my wayward friend who, after a bit of explaining, convinced me that I needed to play the ‘bad guy’ and rescue him from the women who were circling his table by proclaiming that I needed him to take me back to the bay as I had yadda yadda yadda to do in the morning. The plan went off without a hitch until I proclaimed that he needed to take me back to the bay in front of the ladies.
In retrospect, I am able to visualize the scene and describe it like this: It was like a shot out of a Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom episode where the female lions had already injured the prey and were taking turns running it down. The gazelle’s only chance is to reach the safety of the river bank but the water’s edge is soooo far away and the lionesses are fast and hungry.
In the end, the leader (the ALPHA-stripper, if you will) bartered a settlement in which we would be allowed to leave but only after we had tipped every woman at the table, the rationale being that we saw them all nekkid and therefore owed them for the service. Thankfully There4 stepped up and paid my portion as well as his own as I was totally prepared to trip him as I ran out of the place, leaving him to the lionesses and humping it back to the bay.
It shouldn’t be a wonder to you, dear reader, why I didn’t go back. The good news is that I got to see my dear friend ‘Autumn’ one last time before we headed north. Karaoke saves the day, once again.
