death metal chicks
I had to celebrate. I had to blow off steam. The last two weeks have been driving me crazy, so I went to the strip club just outside of town. The town elders won't let one exist in town, because of some irrational fear of vaginas. But everyone's got their own hang ups, I guess. I have about 34,024 of them.
One thing I'm rather shameless about is my enjoyment of throwing money at women who display their naked goodies to me in a very wholesale and impersonal manner. I worried that since this was my first trip solol to such an establishment that I wouldn't have a good time. I shouldn't have been concerned. I had a great fucking time--I almost always do when I venture out by myself--until it was time for me to leave.
I took a grip out of the ATM to fund the trip. I'd have to pay for cab fare there and back, which wasn't cheap, but the cab driver turned out to be really cool. He gave me his number to call him up for the ride back.
Everything was going so well.
I paid the ridiculously high cover charge and parked myself instantly at the tip rail. This is important. I have to survey and scrutinize. I can rarely afford more than one lap dance and I have to pick the right one. Plus, I'm picky. Even when it comes to five minutes of paid affection. I mean, I'm not just gonna let anyone bounce on this lap.
Luckily, I had seated myself, quite by coincidence, next to some tip rail high rollers. They were tossing bank down for each girl, which turned our corner of the stage into quite a hotspot. I tried to keep up with them through the first couple girls, but really, it was impossible. They were hig stakes, all-in types. I'm far too concerned with not going too overboard.
I saw a nice sampling of dancers and decided it was time to get a drink of water and chill in the back for a moment, just so I wouldn't spend all my money, but then I heard the familiar intro of Iron Maiden's "Hallowed Be thy Name," and I couldn't resist.
It turned out to be a cover of the song by freaky vampire black metal artists Cradle of Filth, but still...I banged my head and sang along as a school-girl-suited little demon served our souls up on a fleshy, gyrating platter to the dark lord Satan.
I then retired to the back to send my old strip club/gambling partner a text message.
"You want a dance?" the Death Metal Chick with the pierced nipples (who actually looks nothing like the woman pictured above--I was trying to set the mood) asked as I was hunched over my cell phone.
"You've been here before, haven't you?" she asked. And then I remembered that she'd given me a dance before. It was the kinder gentler sister of the littler girl who beat the shit out of me.
We went to the back and I geeked out over the choice of music, because I'm a geek, and we had a few minutes before a new song was cued up. She did her thing, I did mine (try not to blush and giggle) and I paid her for her time and left a pretty good tip on the seat next to me.
I decided I'd take a few more bucks out at the club's ATM for a ridiculous processing charge so I could chill at the rail a bit more while I called and waited for my cabby to come back. Unfortunately, to have done so, I would have needed my ATM card, which was totally not in my wallet. So there I was, 10 miles north of town, with five singles in my wallet and a really, really empty feeling in my stomach. I called the cabby and embarked on what will go down in history as the most pathetic and whiney phone call of all time.
He said he'd be right out. I hung up the phone and convinced myself he was lying and considered swallowing my pride and trying to call my roommate or making the longest walk of guilt ridden shame. Ever.
Ten minutes later he rolled into the parking lot and drove me home to see if I could find my card. I didn't, but my roommate was home and she had cash. I wrote her a check. I paid the cabby and he told me to give him a ring if I needed a ride again. Score.
God really does love us sinners.
One thing I'm rather shameless about is my enjoyment of throwing money at women who display their naked goodies to me in a very wholesale and impersonal manner. I worried that since this was my first trip solol to such an establishment that I wouldn't have a good time. I shouldn't have been concerned. I had a great fucking time--I almost always do when I venture out by myself--until it was time for me to leave.
I took a grip out of the ATM to fund the trip. I'd have to pay for cab fare there and back, which wasn't cheap, but the cab driver turned out to be really cool. He gave me his number to call him up for the ride back.
Everything was going so well.
I paid the ridiculously high cover charge and parked myself instantly at the tip rail. This is important. I have to survey and scrutinize. I can rarely afford more than one lap dance and I have to pick the right one. Plus, I'm picky. Even when it comes to five minutes of paid affection. I mean, I'm not just gonna let anyone bounce on this lap.
Luckily, I had seated myself, quite by coincidence, next to some tip rail high rollers. They were tossing bank down for each girl, which turned our corner of the stage into quite a hotspot. I tried to keep up with them through the first couple girls, but really, it was impossible. They were hig stakes, all-in types. I'm far too concerned with not going too overboard.
I saw a nice sampling of dancers and decided it was time to get a drink of water and chill in the back for a moment, just so I wouldn't spend all my money, but then I heard the familiar intro of Iron Maiden's "Hallowed Be thy Name," and I couldn't resist.
It turned out to be a cover of the song by freaky vampire black metal artists Cradle of Filth, but still...I banged my head and sang along as a school-girl-suited little demon served our souls up on a fleshy, gyrating platter to the dark lord Satan.
I then retired to the back to send my old strip club/gambling partner a text message.
"You want a dance?" the Death Metal Chick with the pierced nipples (who actually looks nothing like the woman pictured above--I was trying to set the mood) asked as I was hunched over my cell phone.
"You've been here before, haven't you?" she asked. And then I remembered that she'd given me a dance before. It was the kinder gentler sister of the littler girl who beat the shit out of me.
We went to the back and I geeked out over the choice of music, because I'm a geek, and we had a few minutes before a new song was cued up. She did her thing, I did mine (try not to blush and giggle) and I paid her for her time and left a pretty good tip on the seat next to me.
I decided I'd take a few more bucks out at the club's ATM for a ridiculous processing charge so I could chill at the rail a bit more while I called and waited for my cabby to come back. Unfortunately, to have done so, I would have needed my ATM card, which was totally not in my wallet. So there I was, 10 miles north of town, with five singles in my wallet and a really, really empty feeling in my stomach. I called the cabby and embarked on what will go down in history as the most pathetic and whiney phone call of all time.
He said he'd be right out. I hung up the phone and convinced myself he was lying and considered swallowing my pride and trying to call my roommate or making the longest walk of guilt ridden shame. Ever.
Ten minutes later he rolled into the parking lot and drove me home to see if I could find my card. I didn't, but my roommate was home and she had cash. I wrote her a check. I paid the cabby and he told me to give him a ring if I needed a ride again. Score.
God really does love us sinners.
1 comment:
I still think the other story is funnier.
And, dude, what is it with you and that ATM card? You're always losing it. Staple it to your head or something.
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