Skip to content

2 o’clock club

August 26, 2006

So this teenager walks into a strip club and says to her boyfriends best-friend, “hey, I could totally do that. Easy money man” He says, “Sure you could”

I was working on a term paper Junior year of high school and I was 17? I think. My boyfriend had joined the Army a couple of months before we got together and was accepted into Warrant Officer School in the south somewhere because he could juggle really well. He had no college or previous military experience and I am told that is how they sort of choose you. Ty was a smart ass and clever and an excellent juggler and convinced them he could fly helicopters. So I am alone and not with him but have many friends to keep me company and his best friend Paul came over and we decided to go out for a beer. Louie’s Bookstore Cafe was always an easy hit for beer and the best banana chocolate chip cake ever. BUT, they busted us and we were bummed. Feeling bored and still wanting a drink we tried to think of where we could go. I thought, “The Block” I have never been there and lived in this stinky town all my life.

Of course he being wiser and slightly older, I think 19 or 20, said, “No. No fucking way. No.” I say, “Awww, come on Plough. We can just drive by and then you can take me home.” I wore him down to , “Lets just park and I will look down the street and you can stay in the car.” He agrees and since I am out, I walk down the block. I stop in front of the 2 o’clock club and there is this gorgeous man and women, totally and completely trashed swaying back in forth arguing about going in. I am having the same but somewhat more quiet argument with my friend. The drunk gorgeous woman in the hugest blackest fur coat I have ever seen spins around and slings her arm around me and says, “fuck them–lets go in!” Of course we do. Men to obviously follow.

It is everything I think it will be. Cheap. Dark. Smoky. Expensive ( I buy Paul a 7 dollar Bud). With a giant wooden catwalk with 2 poles one at each end. There is only a juke box and 2 seedy skinny bartenders and 4 giant no necked doormen. We sit down and share our beer and he all but dares me to do it. (don’t ever dare me to do anything. I am stupid and will probably do it. You might be thinking —wow, cool, but usually it is not and I almost die or get in lots of trouble. It is just stupidity really. I was an only child.)

I ask the bartender if anyone has ever done that? He says sure, all the time. It is called a “guest spot” but you have to take off either your top or your bottom or you can’t do it. And you have to do 3 songs. I say, “sure.”

I am not wearing very nice clothes or underwear because I am in high school and was doing my term paper for history and had only planned on a beer and banana cake. The bartender tells me that “Rose” will lend me some stuff. She is really sweet and lends me hideous wooden platform shoes and a black bolero type shawl/jacket thing. I decide I can not show my cootchie to strangers. Boobs on the other hand are just boobs, so what? Men are pathetic. I pick my songs. Heart racing and I am thinking I should just run but I am not not in my clothes and wearing some poor girls lively hood so I concentrate and look over the juke box. I make my selections.

1. It takes 2

2. Push it

3 Welcome to the jungle

My songs come on and I race around and dance. All to my friend who is DYING of shame and embarrassment and guilt for getting me to this place. As each song progresses, all the men, except the Asian looking gentlemen that look like a convention group as they are all wearing ties and suits and name tags of some kind, are crowding around my friend slapping him on the back and he keeps his head down in shame. The last song I flash my almost size b boobs to the crowd and look around at the men. It is ridiculous. They are just boobs. I am only moderately good looking and I don’t really know how to dance but I can do a split and that is a big hit. For those moments those men are transfixed on really nothing. I mean, COME ON…your MOM has boobs for gods sake. A cootchie for that matter and how on earth did most of us get here but sex by our parents and their is NOTHING sexy about that. Do we all just suspend disbelief for those primal moments that involve sex or violence?

Pretty lame. I really was pretty lame. But, half naked. My poor friend is dead. Head on the bar, I think crying a little. I am finished and the head bouncer guy comes over and says 9 men want to buy me drinks and the owner is here and wants to offer me a job. I say, um, no thanks I am in school and it was just a prank. He tells me in case I change my mind……come and see them. It is good to know that I can always fall back on that. Comforting.

Moral of the story: Breasts are amazing. Men are kinda sad and predictable. Don’t take your clothes off in front of your friends.

Words to live by.

***I realize I do much of my damage to myself. My family is only moderately involved.***

3 Comments leave one →
  1. August 28, 2006 12:38 am

    It Takes Two? From that movie??? You danced to that?????

    Great story!

  2. laura permalink
    August 28, 2006 2:45 am

    The most distressing part of this story is the fact that you missed out on that banana chocolate chip cake. Me, I was a slave to Louie’s chocolate raspberry torte. I would take off my clothes on the Block tonight if doing so would earn me a hunk of that long-lost dessert. What is pride, anyway?

  3. Sparkle permalink
    April 22, 2008 2:11 am

    Well,i haven’t done stripping YET but i plan on trying.I need money,cant get a job,bigggg boobs and a little waste.I got a baby face,and i think i got what it takes.Stripping is not a career,i just need to get myself through college.No harm in that.Right?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: