Monday, September 17, 2007

Strip Club

“Do you want a chocolate lap dance?”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five for topless. Forty for all nude.”
“How long?”
“One song.”

Maya is light-skinned and thick with NBA tits and a BET ass. Hot enough to make me want to masturbate to black porn. She makes me wish I was a rapper – Cam’ron, maybe – so I could make it rain on her and look appropriate doing it.

“Is it a long song? Like ‘End of the Road’?”

She smiles. Walks away.

Patrick, my personal trainer friend, shrugs. Earlier we had both decided that if we were going to get a lap dance it was going to be from Maya. When else could we have big, chocolate breasts shoved in our faces? I mean it’s not like we ever have big, vanilla breasts shoved in our faces, but that seems a more likely scenario should we ever have breasts thrown at us.

A bit of exposition:

The Body Shop has a longstanding, titacular tradition in Hollywood. It is the flagship strip club of the Sunset Strip – not one of the shitty, hole-in-the-wall clubs I’m used to. There are no pregnancy scars. No stretch marks. No chewed-bubblegum clitorises or parachute vaginas. No Sudanese-colored assholes. The girls here are clean, fit, and beautiful. Some of the best-looking girls I’ve ever seen. Even the ugly ones look better than the pretty girls at other clubs.

And that’s basically LA, where BMWs are Hondas and Bentleys are BMWs.

We saunter up to the window with our free passes. There’s a girl with emo glasses on the other side:

“Ten dollars.”
“But it says free.”
“You’re paying for the drink minimum.”

I can kind of understand this. You know, fuck us up front.

Inside, there are two stages: white people around one, Mexicans around the other. Our waitress seats us with the Mexicans. I’m not sure if this is a compliment or not, since Mexicans are the lifeblood of most strip clubs.

Did the waitress think we were strip club Mexicans?

A little background on me and strip clubs:

I never go. Been a couple of times to a couple of shitty ones and actually felt my dick crawl inside of me. Strip clubs aren’t arousing to me. I don’t go to fall in love or to meet new people or to glean masturbation material. I go to people watch and crack jokes and see nipples I’m not used to. Tits are the ranch dressing of the adult world: good-tasting things taste a little bit better when they’re around.

A stripper somersaults into a cholo’s lap next to me and makes a wide V with her legs. Her vagina is clean and groomed and beautiful and looks better than the Homecoming Queen’s senior picture.

The cholo tries to eat it.

The stripper pushes his head away, light, sexy, playful, and wags a finger at him. No, no, no, Mr. Mexican. This isn’t East LA. She reverse somersaults back onto the stage and I. Just. Clap.

Patrick gives me a weird look.

“They like applause,” I tell him. “I’m validating her somersault. That took practice and I’m letting her know it paid off. That’s a fucking fantastic pussy-to-face technique.”

Patrick tosses out a dollar. But I wait until the stripper’s looking. I’m like George Costanza in the Calzone episode: if she doesn’t see me do it then what’s the point? Sure, I could set it out in front of me, but it’s not the same. It’s circumstantial evidence – nothing like being caught in the act.

Plus I’m frugal with my singles. I want them to last. Most of the time I abide by the eye contact rule: no eye contact, no dollar. I’m a cheap bitch.

Senior Picture Pussy collects her ones and says her thank you’s and gets off the stage. Another stripper replaces her within seconds. Hotter and with bigger tits and an even prettier vagina. How is this possible?

She spins around the pole and drops it like it’s hot. Makes eye contact with me. Crawls over, turns around, and taps her asshole like a microphone. Testing, testing.

I’m out another dollar.

A Norse-looking Helga girl with blonde pigtails and perky breasts comes out next. Patrick is digging her because he just moved here from Sweden and misses the racially-pure Aryan beauties he used to bone in the lush hills of the Olde Country.

He drops a dollar.

“Be generous,” the stripper says with an accent.
“We work at a gym,” I tell her. She seems to understand this means we don’t have shit and slinks over to some horny-looking Mexicans, as if there's any other kind.

A generic-looking stripper named Mariah approaches us. Tries to squeeze out a lap dance.

“You can touch for forty.”
“Mmmhmm. But not my pussy.”
“Oh, no. I respect vaginas.”

We hint, half-joking, that we’re waiting for Maya, but Maya is nowhere to be seen. Later we see her disappearing into the back room with a large ese. Or is it SA? Or essay? Whatever. Fat Mexican.

We’re crushed. Not really. But what kills me is that now I’m seriously considering buying a lap dance. Coming in I was an adamant no-lap-dance guy. Sure, I joked about getting one, but I joked about it in the same way I joke about aborting my future retard son. In the back of my head I know I’ll keep him and exploit him.

The transformation to maybe-lap-dance guy is swift and you don’t know it’s happened until it’s too late. From that point on it’s just a matter of finding the stripper that’s right for you. Black or white? Blonde or brunette? Clit ring or no clit ring? The whole time you’re self-aware. You know you shouldn’t be doing this. You know it’s a bad investment ($25 for 3-4 minutes). It’s like unprotected sex except there’s no way you’re going to get lucky and come out clean. You will pay. Gonorrhea of the wallet.

But fuck it. It feels good.

Out of the corner of my eye I see another stripper approaching. I pretend not to notice her and engage Patrick in a conversation about Maya’s tits.

“Dude, they’re so big and black.”
“I know!”
“They’re like moon bounces at Hershey Park.”
And then I feel a hand on my leg. Hot breath in my ear.
“What’s your name?” in a sweet, almost lilting voice.

I turn to see the stripper. One not like the rest. She has an attainable beauty to her – the kind of girl you crush on during math class. Cute, not hot. Classy, not trashy. This girl’s parents would definitely disapprove of what their daughter is doing. And I like that.

Plus she smells so fucking good.

“Uh… Jeff.”
“I’m Vanessa.”

She starts to caress my leg. Back. Forth. And then lightly scratching with her fingernails. I fill with this hot tingling feeling. Her touch is electric, like Rayden from Mortal Kombat.

I’m putty.

“… hi… Vanessa…”
“You’re a cutie.”

I blush. Smile. Really?

“Ooh, look at those dimples!”

She giggles like a little girl. Caresses higher. Fingertips.

“So do you want a dance? I’m feeling extra catty tonight. Maybe I’ll make it a little longer for you.”

Yes, she is definitely making it longer. At an alarming rate, actually. But that’s not why I go to the ATM machine. Vanessa succeeds where Maya fails because she makes me feel wanted. I know she’s hustling me like one of my Mexican brethren, but I can’t do anything about it because I’m not taking orders from my brain. I’m not taking orders from my boner either.

I’m taking orders from my hot, tingly, middle school feeling. And there’s nothing I can do. Her touch. Breath. Voice. Smell. All of that shit. It’s one big roofie.

The back room is bunch of partitions with chairs in between. Vanessa sits me down. Takes off her top. She has small C-cups that are proportionate to her frame. Her nipples are brown and well-sized – a healthy balance of areola and protuberance.

Impressive tits.

She starts to writhe. Dance. Slow. Sexy. She rubs my chest, shoulders, arms. I flex my triceps when she runs her hands over them. She gives them a little “yes, I notice” squeeze and all is well. She puts her knee in between my legs and moves it back and forth. She climbs onto my lap and rubs her breasts in my face. I inhale her perfume. Or is it body spray? Or lotion?

She drops down. Brings her mouth an inch from my crotch. Simulates titty-fucking, which does nothing for me because I wouldn’t be able to actually titty fuck her since her breasts aren’t big enough. But this is just a minor inconvenience and the lust is not erased from my face.

She comes up slow. Smooth. Lips an inch from mine. And let me tell you, she is so good at her job that I actually think she’s going to put them on mine and tell me how I’m different from all the other guys and that this is all going to be free because she legitimately wants me and thinks that we should make-out in the rain together sometime.

But she doesn’t. And the dance ends. Three minutes. Maybe four. No song and a half. She gives me a big hug and I’m on my way.

$25 poorer.

And it feels good.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Update on Monday

I'm sure many of you have probably given up on this blog, but for those couple who still may be reading, there's going to be some new shit up on Monday. Topic:

the Strip Club

Saturday, September 1, 2007


Waiting in line at LAX is a hell no English-speaking person (first language only) should have to endure. It’s like riding the bus, except the bus isn’t going anywhere and there are more children. There’s something about being trapped in line at the airport that makes you empathize with the terrorists. You start to see where they’re coming from, why we need to be exterminated and squashed out. Fuck training camps. Stick would-be terrorists in line at LAX. I’ve only been here half-an-hour and the word “jihad” is spelled out in my head in burning letters.

I want to punch the people around me. A list:

The ten-year-old ginger girl named Ruth with Kool-Aid lips and a teal suitcase. The twenty-something thirty-something with too much makeup and a Paris Hilton dog sticking its head out of a purse-suitcase-doggy carrier. The fat, balding man in black Wranglers who was born sweating. The greasy-haired asshole in the cargo shorts with his dyke-looking girlfriend who won’t stop Jack Johnsoning on his acoustic guitar. The FOB Asian girls with the mullets and the acne and the unbelievably hairy pussies that smell like Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Cocky-looking marines who made it out alive and smile because they know they’re going home to hot, underage pussy and idolatry. The young, big-nosed foreign couple behind me jabbering in some fucked up language.

“Oshkosh! Oshkoshbgosh!”

I feel like making a bomb joke. Or maybe I should set my laptop case down near a trash can and just walk away and observe from a distance. How long until it becomes a suspicious package? Can I get this whole place shut down?

Yes, I’m more rage-filled than usual, in case you couldn’t sense it. I missed my flight. My fault, yes, but only to an extent. My writer’s assistant friend, Brendan (thanks a billion for the ride, man), and I arrived at the airport around 9:40, and since my flight was supposed to leave at 11:35, decided we had enough time to get a bite to eat. Denny’s. And, if it weren’t for our over-the-hill Armenipersian waitress with the drawn-on eyebrows, we would have dipped the fuck out of Dodge with time to spare.

But things are never easy.

I get to LAX with about forty-five minutes to make my flight. Enough time, right? Maybe. But I have to check a bag. I go to the self check-in, try to print out my itinerary. I get a message out that basically says this:

“You’re going to miss your fucking flight because we need at least 45 minutes to get your shit on the plane.”

I check my cell phone. 10:52. 43 minutes. Fuck. That.

Frantic, I grab an attendant and show her the message. With one look she acknowledges that I am indeed fucked and points to a line that’s longer than a thousand porn cocks. This is where I must wait.

I try to look at these moments as character-building moments. My day is ruined, but at least I’ll grow as a person. This is good for me in the long run. It will humble me. It will build character.

But how much fucking character can you build before you snap?

I make it out of line, the land of a thousand smells, and get re-routed to Dallas. From there I’ll fly to Nashville. Projected arrival time: 10:30 CST.

The only good that can come from this is if my original flight crashes. That way, through fucking up, I will have averted tragedy and live to fully understand and appreciate what it means to be late. If my original flight crashes my life will taste so much sweeter.

But what if my new flight crashes? God, what a kick in the fucking nuts that would be. Late AND dead. That’s like being Sudanese and having a tiny dick. I’m sure that, as the plane plummets, I’ll seek out the loudest baby and/or old person and kick the living shit out of them while I scream “Forty-three fucking minutes!” Just to vent, you know?

I imagine old people get this smug sense of superiority when the plane’s going down, like they were going to die soon anyway. I can picture old Mabel giving the finger to a four-year-old boy. Death is her turf and he’s on that motherfucker. She’s lived life and he’s only begun to learn his ABCs.

“Fuck you, sonny boy. I win.”