LADEELEROY

2001-08-07

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I See You Baby. Shaking That Ass. And That Breast. And That Other Breast.
 
  I went to my first strip club this past weekend.


I really don't have a problem with strip clubs.


When I've dated guys in the past, and they said, "Hey, I'm gonna go watch some tig ol' bitties up at the strip club.. I'll be back in a few.," I wasn't offended or thinking, "Oh my God. He's going to go to that strip club and catch some horrible VD from one of them or will do lines of coke off their big plastic tits or worse, will meet the girl of his dreams and they'll open up a poll waxing business together using the major labia technique."


Instead I would say, "Tip the one with the biggest tits an extra buck for me." Then I'd sit back on my couch and watch COPs. I'm modern. I'm hip. I'm all for strip clubs.


But when my friends said, "We're going to go to Legs now." I admit, my ass tightened up and images of glistening breasts dipping in my Jack & Coke kind of creeped me out a little. That and the club's name was Legs. I was a little relieved that I wouldn't be seeing any dancing amputees at this particular club, but nonetheles, the name screamed "A Place To Objectify Women."


Walk in through the front door. We're greeted by a large breasted girl that I know I went to high school with. She's coked up on something. Or maybe it was just the look one gets when you loose self respect.


When I handed her my $5 cover she started to roll it up as a straw. The bouncer kind of tapped her hand and did the gesture for "No no. Not for snorting. For paying the register." Big Breasted Door girl looked disappointed and stamped my hand with an icon of a leg. However, she got it at a weird angle and my skin folded in such a way that the stamp came out looking like a leg that had been ripped in half, but sexily dressed in fishnets and a stilleto.


I am surprised that my friends and I are not the only females in the place. It's pretty much a male dominated atmosphere, but there are a couple of chicks strewn about. I head to the bar.


$6.75.

$6.75.

For a damn Jack & Coke. It came in a glass that looked like it was a Dixie Cup that made it good.


So we sit and watch the girls dance. To the left of me is a hallway that is lined with private dancing booths. I don't know if it's appropriate to watch the private dancing or not. I mean, if I watch one of the private dancing sessions, doesn't that mean that I kind of butted in on someone else's session? When she's finished am I obligated to walk over and say, "I'm so sorry. I was watching a good 3 minutes of that. Here- it's $5. I'm guessing that will cover my portion of the lap dance." This thought makes me paranoid, so I ignore the private dance hallway and focus on the main stage.



Good. Lord.



Gentlemen- I know most of you know this- but Good Lord. Breasts are not supposed to be rooted in the armpit. They are not supposed to look like drowned skinned baby turkeys that were sewn onto the collar bone. When you tip the unnatural breasts the biggest bills- you're totally sending the message that you like the fake ones. That you prefer the fake ones. Perhaps you do- but good heavens- why? Some of them were so fake I was scared that they were going to explode and I'd have to pay for another $6.75 Jack & Coke because my previous one was tainted by silicon/saline/soy/tears/leftoverspit/whatever fake breasts are filled with now and days.


And apparently, you're not supposed to clap when a girl is finished with her dance. I made this mistake several times throughout the night and didn't realize it was a faux pas until someone suggested that I only say "Whoooooooooooo!" when Carson Daley complies to my request on TRL.


But why? Who doesn't like applause? And shouldn't a stripper receive the proper accolades she so greatly deserves for completing a routine without once making eye-contact with anyone in the room? Doesn't that deserve some kind of praise? Why can't I shout out, "Hey! Whooooo! Way to go! Good Job!" when I feel that she deserves it? I would go up and give her a gold star sticker on her "Stripper Conduct" chart, but I couldn't find that anywhere. So instead I shouted "Whoooo! Excellent job!"


Everyone in our section of the club turned and looked at me.


I clapped really loud and followed with "She did a really nice job, huh guys?"


Two guys nodded and then awkwardly clapped as if the idea of putting two hands together in order to make noise would cause their penises to shrink, but at the sametime the sound of skin hitting skin was a little too comforting to resist.


I noticed that, at least in this particular establishment, there weren't too many original moves from the strippers. Alot of poll twirling. There's also the combo moves of shakey shakey the titties while you waggy waggy the ass. I personally enjoyed the one girl who's entire routine consisted of watching herself in the mirrored wall behind her. I was hoping she was making a list in her head while doing it:


Note to self:

1)Wax inner leg area.

2)Buy new thong. Present thong not working out. Loosing elasticity.

3)Call Mom.

4)Break up with boyfriend.

5)Return call to Jerry Springer producers.

6)Return copy of Joy Luck Club to library.

7)Pick up milk.

8)Pick up kid.

9)Pick up dollars from floor.

10)Get real job.

11)Windex mirrored walls tomorrow.


Needless to say. It was a pretty uneventful experience. Just a bunch of breasts. A couple of ass shots now and then. No nude. Don't think I'm ready for the nude strip clubs. Nor do I think I'll ever be.


But I must say I do feel a little stronger and a little wiser about being able to survive a stint to a place called Legs. It's gonna be a while before I go to another strip club, though. And if I do, I'm bringing my own Jack & Cokes and a poncho just in case.

 
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Copyright 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004 L.Leroy