So after my first time at a strip club, I figured the phenomenon that is: watching women (that I don’t know) take their clothes off for my money, was just not for me. Yet somehow, through the persuasive elixir of beer, whiskey and peer-pressure, I was convinced to make two more strip club appearances that have drastically changed my point of view on their importance to us as a sane society (kidding, but only kind of).
Here is what transpired on those two evenings…
Strip Club Visit #2
Town: Columbia, South Carolina (Go Cocks!)
Strip Club: Platinum Plus
I’m going to flash forward to the morning after strip club visit #2 when a group of my college buddies and I had ventured out for bacon-egg-&-cheeses. Upon our return to the house everyone was still very much buzzed, and nobody noticed the whimpers coming from inside the door as we walked up the brick porch steps. I grabbed the door handle, but before turning the rain-rusted knob I froze and motioned for my friends to quell their argument over who had the hottest stripper the previous night. (Not that any of them had any strippers, they just chose to neglect the fact that they were paying generously for the strippers’ company). The banter quieted, and we were able to make out a few hushed words through the sobs, “Poppy, I I I am so sorry. I don’t know what happened. The strippers just took my card!” Robby (we’ll call him) stammered, lying to his Dad about the ridiculous amount of money he had spent that night.
Maybe it’s bad karma, but it just seems like the stars had aligned that morning when we heard the overly confident 23-year-old macho-man from the night before crying hysterically to his father. Just hours earlier he had been pouring expensive champagne on himself exclaiming, “money ain’t a thing,” (Jay-Z style) while the three strippers led him to the back room.
But in fact, to “Poppy” money was a thing.
Their conversation paused, and then, as beautiful as a baby’s first word or a nightingale’s chirp, a grown man’s weep sounded through the phone’s speaker. It was glorious. “Robby, si si six thousand dollars,” the words were stifled by Robby’s father’s sobs. The phone conversation had become like laughing gas to the four of us that stood on the porch. I was dancing around in glee and my friend Mike began sprinting down the street because he couldn’t stand the situation anymore.
The lesson here was don’t be an idiot at the strip club and act like you have more money than you do, because the persuasion of naked girls is more than any man can withstand. Also, if your are with an ass like Robby who has been bragging about everything from how often he gets laid to how he is UFC trained and could kick your ass, let him spend as much money as the strip club can suck out of him. Who knows, it could end up in tears of glory the following morning.
Strip Club Visit #3
Town: Charleston, South Carolina
Strip Club: Jaguars
From the moment our group entered the club that evening, things began to spiral out of control. Given that the most of our party was college kids and recent graduates, it may not be a surprise that we were a) drunk and b) poor. One kid in our group who had been especially obnoxious at the pregame party and on the drive to the club, began hanging over the stage and harassing the stripers. His antics may have been acceptable had he been tipping liberally. Instead he hung a $20 as bait until the stripper came to him and began dancing. As soon she opened her breasts (as a tip jar of sorts) the kid recoiled his arm and stuffed the 20 in his pocket, “gotcha bitch,” he sputtered. Seeing this the DJ yelled at the guy to move away from the stage. The kid began yelling back at the DJ, but nobody could really make out his muffled insults over the DJ’s mic’d up onslaught of slights toward the kid. After a few minutes of arguing over a Lil John beat, the DJ motioned for the bouncers to remove from the guy from the club. It wasn’t to much of a task for the two 300 pound men to grip the 150-pound squirrely frat boy by the Brooks Brothers collar and drag him through the club’s double doors. Nobody from our group really seemed to care; rather, we all just resumed our fixation on the strippers.
Later that night, I was standing at the cash machine that dispensed $2 bills instead of ones (a genius strip club business plan) when I noticed a girl from our group engaging in some borderline porno activity with a stripper on stage. When I looked closer, I realized the girl on stage was Helen, my best friend. It would have been hot except for the fact that I refer to the girl that had her breast cupped inside the striper’s mouth as “my little sister.”
Amidst all that has transpired with my strip club experience, this phenomenon seems to have sparked a certain fascination with me. A step raunchier than dance clubs, and a step more reserved than whore houses, strip clubs have found a way to make the happy, happier and the sad forget their miseries. They are places of celebration and commiseration where entertainment is valued by the size of your bankroll and properness is wildly atypical. They are places to celebrate special occasions for most patrons and places that can become “spider webs of depression” for a small but solemn few.
The mesmerizing women who move methodically, meticulously shaking breasts, butts (in the lower-end establishments, tummies do their own sort of involuntary shaking) in drooling men’s faces do this as a job for our entertainment. Strippers deserve our eyes, our attention, and our money. But the true beauty of strip clubs is not necessarily what transpires on stage or in the champagne rooms. Rather, it’s the antics and the craziness that is guaranteed to be fodder for a great story on every visit. So if you’re looking to make a memory that may not be appropriate for a family dinner, but is certain to have the guys at the poker table rolling over in laughter, look no further than your closest strip club…
[Strip club image via ShutterStock]
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