My First Strip Club: Part 1

My first experience where a woman was naked in front of me was that one time I walked in on my parents when I was 3. That was pretty awkward, but at least I walked out of there convinced that my mom was looking for her earring, and my dad was just helping her. Naked.

My next experience with the naked female body came in 7th grade, when one of my classmates asked me, “have you ever seen a vagina?” To which I replied, “What?” Then I looked up, and he was flashing me a card of an attractive blonde woman spread eagle on top of a mustang. “America,” I thought. The only thing covering up her genitals was a big white star, with text running over it that said “Ooh!” I immediately started blushing, and reported this misbehavior to the teacher.

Ooh was right.

After being forced pornography at the tender age of 12, my next encounter with the female body was in my awkward, pubescent youth that involved playing games like “nervous,” where you asked questions like “are you nervous?” while your hand slid up some girls knee-cap, towards her mid-thigh. I always lost “nervous” because I always ended up asking the girl if she felt violated. To which she replied, “No, why are you such a p***y?” Then went to make out with the dude that slapped her butt between every passing period, before high-fiving all of his friends.

Then, we got to high school and you got to ask different questions, instead of “are you nervous?” you got to say things like, “will you give me a handjob?” and “what size cup do you wear?” And by “ask questions” I mean “questions I heard my friends ask, because I was way too terrified to even pretend like I knew cup size was not a reference to what I drank my lemonade out of, and handjob sounds as weird as it looks when it is typed up.”

Fast forward 8 years, and I had my first experience where women were dancing on a pole, getting paid to show their private parts to perverts. I got dragged to “amateur strip night” in wholesome Bend, Oregon at Boonedocks. I think it sucked. I say “I think” because I was staring at the wall the entire time, cracking my knuckles, counting ceiling tiles, wondering if refusing to look at mediocre naked women made me any less hetero-sexual. My nervous racing thoughts were soon interrupted by the emcee, who was speaking some of the vilest, most putrid, appalling, coarse play-by-play I’ve heard in my life.

As the girl was dancing:

“Check out that cornnhole!,” he shouted, as our entire table turned to each other, wondering two things: 1.) what the hell is he talking about? And 2.) Did he just say ‘corn-hole?’

“She wants your dollar bill in her kiester, say hello to the brown eye!”

It is at this point that I start blushing, and contemplating the location of the nearest exit.

Finally, the home-run-ball, “I bet he’s got a real log-jam goin on!” The Emcee screams over the PA system, in-between slugs of his Keystone Light.

I still have yet to assign meaning to that last one, but hearing the words “corn-hole” and “logjam” make me want to simultaneously vomit, die, and stay away from any place that you are supposed to pay money to see girls take their clothes off.

And stay away I did. That is, until I met Keith. Fast forward to Las Vegas, 6 months later.

Keith seemed nice enough. And when I say “Keith seemed nice enough,” I mean, he was wearing a suit on the Las Vegas Strip, and it was at the very least debatable whether or not he was a member of the Mafia and would steal my kidneys that night.

“Aye, boys, you tryna’ go ta tha strip-club?” He asks me and four of my friends. He was not asking for my liver. This was encouraging.

I get flashes of “corn-holes,” and “log-jam’s” and reply for the entire group.
“Absolutely not,” I say.

“Ah, cam’an. Why not? D’ja somekinda’ girl?” Keith replied, in literally one word.
“No. I am a man. I am also fairly confident that there are at least 20 girls in this casino that would enjoy a strip-club more than I would. Maybe you should try them.” I say, relatively proud of my retort.

“Ah, so youz some kindaGay, eh? Understood, have a nice night,” Keith replied. Such a sly dog.

It is at this moment that I pause momentarily between the bright lights of The Strip, the constant traffic of drunken 20-somethings, and the girls blowing kisses on the tables to whoever will receive them, and I wonder, “How many people does Keith get with this “so, you must be GAY” bit, every night? Because, obviously, gay people are the only people in this world that wouldn’t want to blow $100 for lap-dances.”

Before I can come up with a solid estimate, my drunken friend barges in, spilling his whiskey mixed drink on my right shoulder, infuriated, before he says, “Ah, no NO F***that, Keith! We are SO not gay!”

“Ah, yeah? Well, djawanna go toda strip club then, if youz so straight?” Keith replied.

It has now turned into a masculine-off. You’ve seen it before. It’s not as rare as we’d like it to be, but it’s still a sight to behold. You know, the guy at the party who refuses to let you drive him home because “F***that p***y s**t, I feel FINE,” or the guy who arbitrarily seeks out fights at any given party, “Alright, who’s down to BRAWL!?!?”

I was half-expecting my friend to reply, “you wanna know HOW gay I am NOT? Let’s go to TEN strip clubs. And watch A MILLION girls dance and shake their privates at us! That’s how gay we are not, Keith! I’m talking THOUSANDS OF VAGINAS!”

Then Keith would say something like, “I knew ya had it inya, ya p***ies! Now, come hop in my van, and I’ll sell your eyeballs on da Black Market!”

Then there’d be that weird moment of silent tension like in the movies, before he let out a bellowing laugh that shakes the sidewalk, to show us that Keith is really just a cool dude in a cheap tuxedo.

“Aaaah, I’m just messin witcha! Come on, we already called da party-bus!” Keith said, promising us the world.

(PART 2 TO FOLLOW. CAN YOU EVEN WAIT!?!?!? I CAN'T! LAS VEGAS STRIP CLUBS! I MEAN...HOW COOL IS THAT!??!?!?!?!??)