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.

“Well?”
“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.”
“Touch?”
“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.

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

LAX

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.”

Lunch in Beverly Hills

Rodeo Drive is like a cunty woman. Rich, beautiful, and fully aware of it. The second you see her you know you don’t have a chance in hell. She’s used to attention, to people marveling at her pulchritude and opulence. Me, I try not to look, as is my policy with any too-beautiful woman. Why blow her head up even more?

The Grill is located just off of Rodeo Drive, expensive and hidden enough to avoid hungry, coupon-clipping tourists wondering where the nearest Longhorn is. I fall into this category, by the way. It’s a cramped, bustling restaurant full of insecure health nuts who take themselves too seriously. Upon entering I hear at least two iPhone related conversations:

“Oh, you have to get one! The gadgets…”
“What about the gadgets?”
“There’s so many of them! Look at what I can do with just my fingers!”

Like babies discovering that thing between their legs grows when touched.

LA, particularly the westside, is full of simple people with money. Imagine every asshole who ever made homecoming court living in one area. Style, but no substance. Vienna sausage with a gourmet label.

Why am I here in the first place?



Joe Blaze. I have no idea what the fuck Joe does. I think he wants to manage or be a motivational speaker or something. He mentions Tony Robbins a lot. Joe is a real nice guy. He says hi to everyone and goes around giving hugs. High-octane, full of energy, always on. He acts like an overly protective mother thinks her child would act if she gave him caffeine before bedtime.

I have a seat on the bench next to three other people Joe roped into lunch: a young, gay optometrist in a polo shirt, a middle-aged Asian man with a tiny body and giant head and parted, reddish hair, and a spiky-haired Asian kid who can’t decide if he’s more academic or Fast and the Furious.

The big-headed, tiny-bodied Asian man takes out a yellow legal pad and looks over at me:

“So do you have any ideas for the Joe Blaze Show?”
“Uh…”
“Basically it’s going to be like a real-life Entourage and Joe’s going to be the hero at the end of every show. There are going to be complications and problems and Joe’s going to use his networking powers to save the day.”

I smile and nod. What. The. Fuck.

Joe looks down at us lovingly, all lined up on the bench like sitting ducks. He calls us his children.

I know I shouldn’t have let him talk me into lunch.

He’s been pushing it on me for a while, at Equinox, and one day I finally just didn’t have an excuse. It’s not that I don’t want a free lunch in an expensive restaurant, because I fucking do. I just don’t want to endure a sales pitch. It’s like having lunch with a Marine Recruiter on the eve of your eighteenth birthday. You know what you’re getting yourself into. See, Joe is an idea man. Next-big-things swim around in his head all day long and if he could only bring one of them to fruition he’d be a rich, rich man. But the problem with having too many ideas is you can never focus on one.

A loopy, middle-aged, mammoth-titted woman in a black dress shows up. She wears a giant hat and talks like she’s excited about everything. Like most older women in LA, I’m convinced she’s forced herself to forget the exact year she was born. That way she can be in her twenties forever.

We get cramped together at a small round table near the back of the restaurant. Joe makes a joke about how much space I take up.

“I know! Look at these arms,” the gay optometrist says. And then, without asking, he squeezes one of them and smiles at me with a twinkle in his eye. Fuck. Not again.

There’s bread at the table and I’m starving because I had small breakfast on purpose. Nobody touches the bread, though, and I feel self-conscious. But I slice myself some carbs anyway. My movements are restricted, like I’m in coach on a crowded airplane. I don’t want to brush up against the optometrist and give him the wrong idea. I don’t want to knock over everyone’s iced tea on this not-sturdy table.

A waitress brings toast and broccoli to the table – appetizers, I guess – and asks me what I want to drink.

“Diet coke, please.”

And I’m happy because I haven’t had an ice cold diet coke at a restaurant forever. I miss the cold glass, the condensation on my fingers, the free refills. A moment later the waitress returns with a tiny glass of ice and a miniature, eight ounce bottle of diet coke that looks like it’s manufactured specifically for the midget community.

She pours the diet coke for me and, like that, the bottle is empty. Four dollars, I’m guessing. Maybe five. I hate to have the I’m-not-paying-so-I’ll-get-whatever-the-fuck-I-want mentality, but this is ridiculous. I ordered a diet coke, not a diet diet coke. Not a diet coke on a diet.

I order another.

Joe takes out his own yellow legal pad. He proceeds to draw diagonal arrows on it, coloring in the heads with the black ink from his pen. Lots of arrows.

The loopy woman starts to talk about her soon-to-be burgeoning cookie enterprise.

“I’m going to be like the Mrs. Fields of the health cookie industry. I’m going to be the cookie mother.”
“The cookie diva. Cookie mother sounds fat,” the gay optometrist says.
“Ooh! I like that! Cookie di-va!”

Joe writes “cookie” on his legal pad. He circles it and draws three arrows pointing to it.

An older gay man who looks like Michael York joins us at the table. The woman continues to talk about her cookies.

“And there’s time-released carbs and no trans-fats and almost no calories. In fact, the time-released carbs have barely any calories at all.”
What?
“We’re putting hemp in them. Not marijuana hemp, but hemp hemp. They have these free radicals and stuff that make you feel better. One of my girlfriends broke up with her boyfriend recently and she was sad and crying and I gave her a cookie and within ten minutes she was cranking the stereo and dancing!”

Everyone at the table either says no or gives her these incredulous “noooo” looks like a skeptical audience in an infomercial.

“I swear! We’re taking these to Oprah. We’re going on Oprah with these. We just need some investment money so we can be prepared for all the orders we’re going to get.”
“I want to invest,” the gay optometrist says.

I feel around in my pocket for loose change.

Cookie Diva passes around some cookies, which surprisingly don’t taste like shit. I have two. Everyone exclaims how good they taste. Cookie Diva revels and basks.

“I wish I could say it’s me, but it’s the power of the chocolate.”

The menus come, finally, and I can’t decide if I want the twenty-five dollar steak salad or the seventeen dollar grilled chicken sandwich. Joe asks the spiky-haired Asian kid to tell us about his business ventures.

“Well, you know how there’s Sprint and AT&T and Verizon?”

Everyone nods.

“Well there’s this other company called ACU and they’re really good and they’ll totally give you this brand new phone for free if you sign up with them. Look.”

He takes out flyers and passes them around. Everyone reads with genuine interest. Either that or they’re really good actors.

Michael York speaks up. He’s here to help with the pitch:

“Video phones are the wave of the future. They’ll do especially well in the Lah-tino community because they’ll be able to see their families back in Mexico or wherever.”
“That’s such a good idea!” Cookie Diva says.

Joe writes “idea” on his pad. Circles it. Arrows it. Shit, you already know.

“I know. It’s even endorsed by Donald Trump,” Spiky-Haired Asian says. And then he shows us a picture of Donald Trump.

Michael York looks at me:

“Are you happy with your phone?”
“Uh… I mean I can talk on it.”
“Let me see it.”

I take out my first or second generation Sprint camera phone and flip it open. I can hear a collective, restrained gasp.

“Oh no no no no. You need something much better than that.”
“But it works.”
“You should sign up with ACU. If you get two people to sign up under you you get $700.”

Hmm, a video phone pyramid scheme endorsed by a picture of Donald Trump. No thanks. Maybe if it was 1994. The whole thing is reminiscent of the Big Ben starter kits from Problem Child 2.

The waitress comes back and I order the steak salad and another diet diet coke. I spend the next fifteen minutes keeping my mouth shut and avoiding eye contact. I don’t want to invite sales pitches or sexual come-ons. I don’t want a video phone or a blowjob.

Through my peripheral, I see the gay optometrist checking me out. His eyes burning a hole through me.

And then Michael York’s eyes. He says this:

“You look a lot like my nephew.”
“Thanks.”
“He’s beautiful.”

I nod and smile uncomfortably. The gay optometrist chimes in:

“Isn’t he?”

And then he pats my leg. I check Joe’s pad to see if he’s writing down “homosexual gang rape”. Circle. Arrow.

Lunch comes. The salad is delicious. Not twenty-five dollars delicious, but twelve dollar delicious. The conversation takes a weird(er) turn.

“We only have enough oil for ten more years. Then we’re going to collapse and die like Atlantis.”
“Did you know Atlantis had lasers?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. They had crystals and shined light through them. Those are lasers.”
“Didn’t they plant a time capsule in the Sphinx?”
“Yes! I was reading something about that!”
“They planted a time capsule in the Yucatan too.”
“It’s a shame they drowned.”

Does it really fucking matter who’s saying what at this point? Another conversation:

“I’ve been going to these breathing classes.”
“Like Lamaze?”
“Kind of. You learn how to breathe. And, if you breathe a certain way, you can get higher than any drug will get you.”

Really. How do I have to breathe to believe this bullshit? I make the mistake of looking up. The big-headed tiny-bodied Asian man is staring at me. Smiling.

“So would you be interested in helping out with the Joe Blaze show?”
“Uh… sure…”
“Awesome.”

And from there, lunch begins its final descent. Waning conversations, mostly-empty plates. I arrived at 1:05. It’s now 4:00.

“Well, I’m gonna go catch the four bus.”
“Oh no, I’ll give you a ride,” the gay optometrist says. Great.

The walk to the car is every bit as awkward as you can imagine, and more. One big, extended what-do-I-say-now moment. We enter this fancy, underground parking garage with shops and wait for valet to pull his car around. Twenty dollar flat fee by the way.

Fucking parking in this city.

We get into his Jaguar and I comment on how I’ve been bumming rides from people and have ridden in a whole bunch of nice cars.

“How’s this one?”
“Nice.”

He smiles. Pats my leg. We pull out of the underground parking garage into heavy traffic. We need to make left and there’s no left turn signal. It takes about twenty minutes to get back onto Santa Monica Boulevard, which is less than a half mile away.

Gay Optometrist turns on his stereo. Presses play on his CD player. Selena fills the car.

And I’m dreaming of you tonight…

“So, do you have a girlfriend?”

… until tomorrow I’ll be holding you tight…

“Yeah, in Tennessee.”

… and there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be…

“Oh.”

… than here in my room, dreaming about you and me.

Richard Marx comes on and we don’t say anything to each other for the rest of the ride. He makes the occasional “traffic is soooo bad” comment, but that’s more for his own comfort.

He drops me off in front of work.

“Well, good luck.”

Translation: Get on your fucking way.

Circle. Arrow.

Update Thursday (probably)

Heading to Nashville for a week on Saturday so no updates next week, but I should have a good one for you guys on Thursday.

Topic: my wacky fucking lunch in Beverly Hills.

Short story

“I want your arms.”

From the mouth of a guy at the gym. Nice guy. Late thirties, Jewtalian looking. Friendly in an I-think-you’re-cool-and-don’t-necessarily-want-to-blow-you kind of way. Genuine enough, you know?

I give him some lifting tips, eating tips, tell him to holler at me if he has any questions.

“Definitely, man.” Lingering smile, eye contact. Maybe he does want to blow me.

But maybe he’s just nice, right? Not every guy in West Hollywood can be gay. I google him to see if he works in the industry. Maybe I can pass him a script. Maybe he knows somebody. I’m sure you’ve heard it before, but this is a six-degrees town. Everyone is connected to everyone. It’s a high school.

And he’s a literary agent at CAA.

No fucking shit. This is what I love about the gym: it’s its own society with its own set of rules, own caste system. The richest most, powerful executive in the world can come into the gym and envy a construction worker. The gym levels the playing field for the common man.

I head out to the floor to help the trainer with closing duties and the agent comes over to me.

“Can you show me what you do?”
“Sure.”

Show him some skullcrushers, barbell curls, all that. I ignore the homoeroticism of it all and tell him I’ll write him out an arm routine. But I don’t get to finish it.

So the agent gives me his email. Phone number.

“Drop me a line.”

The next day, I write him out a long, detailed email with a routine and nutrition info. Eat this before you go to bed, eat this when you wake up, etc. In-depth shit.

Receive an email back:

WOW! Thanks for writing so much! I really appreciate it! I’m buying you a drink sometime! LOL!

Wait. LOL? A literary agent uses “LOL”? Not to mention a disturbing amount of exclamation points and staccato sentence structure?

But maybe it’s just an unprofessional email he wrote on the fly. From his Blackberry.

I write back:

Not a problem. We’ll definitely grab some drinks. Looking forward to it.

Get an email back:

Awesome!! Do you have a Myspace?

I can hear a toilet flush in my soul. Same name, same age, but in no way, shape, or form a CAA literary agent. His Myspace confirms it. In the Heroes section of his profile:

The makers of KY Jelly.

Best Celebrity Sighting Yet

Wood Harris from Above the Rim, one of my favorite movies of all time. Saw him at the 7-11 on La Brea and Sunset.

And happy birthday to my friend Lauren!