I'M YOUR PRIVATE DANCER....A DANCER FOR YAYO
I'm notorious among family and friends for injuring myself and/or causing trouble while on vacation. This time around I only suffered a mild sunburn. I must be losing my touch. Over the past couple of years I've sliced open my ankle on a minibike fender and hit a tree at 35 mph on a snowmobile too. The tree won, but that's a story for another time.
Friday night I did black out for awhile while barhopping in Fayetteville. Prior to the "lost hour" there were Jager shots, Coors Light tallboys, and the beginnings of a tirade against a size 18 girl in a size 9, circa 80's clubbing outfit. She looked like she had swallowed three or four Jennifer Beals. The only thing I specifically recall yelling at this poor girl is "Your wardrobe is NOT Atkins friendly, and neither are those mozzarella sticks!", but I'm told there was about 10 more minutes of similar comments after that revolving around the "Woooooooooo Pig Sooie" call.
My little brother is the mature (and smart) one in the family. As the natives were getting restless with my Don Rickles routine, he said "Brian, we're going to a titty bar." He knows how to get me moving.
Amazingly it was my brother's wife who was mischievous at The Platinum Cabaret. In spite of the "NO PHOTOGRAPHS" signs prominently displayed on the wall every, oh....10 FEET OR SO, she whipped out the ol' disposable Kodak and started playing E.L. Woody before the Baby Hueyesque bouncer came over and confiscated the camera.
Later on my girlfriend decided she wanted a lapdance. Not surprisingly this little turn of events helped bring me back from the blackout zone. I picked out the best looking dancer of the bunch; a young blonde "student" with perky natural C's and all her teeth. The three of us adjourned to the erection section.
When I'm drunk I tend to get a little chatty and bossy when it comes to the private dance. As usual, the hot stripper can't dance for shit. The next day my girlfriend said "it was like an interview conducted by that drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket."
"Do you do Pilates? I could bounce a dollar bill off your ass. <pause> Do you know what Pilates is?"
"Turn around. Push your boobies together and make a big one."
"Grind your ass into my lady's crotch. I'm paying to see some friction here."
She was either really dumb and didn't get my humor, or was just hoping I'd keep talking and lose track of the number of songs she had danced to. I have a very keen stripper radar though, and seeing that we weren't going to get much more than the occasional heavy breathing in the ear and a slap on the ass, I ended the session after two songs.
We wound up closing the place, but not before I told each stripper I was Abe Froman and that I had 5 grams of coke back at the hotel (because "c'mon baby, all strippers do blow."). Alas, I gave them the wrong room number and none of them showed up. Big surprise.
Back at the Comfort Suites I passed out to the Leif Erickson episode of "CHiPs" on the tube and the remnants of Hardee's sourdough burger on my chest. Better believe that room had a ripe smell come morning. I swear I saw a green cloud floating over the bed.
Friday night I did black out for awhile while barhopping in Fayetteville. Prior to the "lost hour" there were Jager shots, Coors Light tallboys, and the beginnings of a tirade against a size 18 girl in a size 9, circa 80's clubbing outfit. She looked like she had swallowed three or four Jennifer Beals. The only thing I specifically recall yelling at this poor girl is "Your wardrobe is NOT Atkins friendly, and neither are those mozzarella sticks!", but I'm told there was about 10 more minutes of similar comments after that revolving around the "Woooooooooo Pig Sooie" call.
My little brother is the mature (and smart) one in the family. As the natives were getting restless with my Don Rickles routine, he said "Brian, we're going to a titty bar." He knows how to get me moving.
Amazingly it was my brother's wife who was mischievous at The Platinum Cabaret. In spite of the "NO PHOTOGRAPHS" signs prominently displayed on the wall every, oh....10 FEET OR SO, she whipped out the ol' disposable Kodak and started playing E.L. Woody before the Baby Hueyesque bouncer came over and confiscated the camera.
Later on my girlfriend decided she wanted a lapdance. Not surprisingly this little turn of events helped bring me back from the blackout zone. I picked out the best looking dancer of the bunch; a young blonde "student" with perky natural C's and all her teeth. The three of us adjourned to the erection section.
When I'm drunk I tend to get a little chatty and bossy when it comes to the private dance. As usual, the hot stripper can't dance for shit. The next day my girlfriend said "it was like an interview conducted by that drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket."
"Do you do Pilates? I could bounce a dollar bill off your ass. <pause> Do you know what Pilates is?"
"Turn around. Push your boobies together and make a big one."
"Grind your ass into my lady's crotch. I'm paying to see some friction here."
She was either really dumb and didn't get my humor, or was just hoping I'd keep talking and lose track of the number of songs she had danced to. I have a very keen stripper radar though, and seeing that we weren't going to get much more than the occasional heavy breathing in the ear and a slap on the ass, I ended the session after two songs.
We wound up closing the place, but not before I told each stripper I was Abe Froman and that I had 5 grams of coke back at the hotel (because "c'mon baby, all strippers do blow."). Alas, I gave them the wrong room number and none of them showed up. Big surprise.
Back at the Comfort Suites I passed out to the Leif Erickson episode of "CHiPs" on the tube and the remnants of Hardee's sourdough burger on my chest. Better believe that room had a ripe smell come morning. I swear I saw a green cloud floating over the bed.
posted by Brian at 8:23 PM
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