For some reason, I’ve never been a fan of strip clubs. Sure, it’s the one place you can drunkenly grope a stranger and not wind up with a busted nose, but in general, they seem to reek of depression and despair. And that’s just the impression I get from the clientele. Melons, Holly & the Infinite Sadness will be a running feature where I attempt to adequately explain my disdain for the “gentlemen’s club,” by regaling you with horrifying tales and personal anecdotes from my single days. Feel free to send your stories along, as well. One can never read enough stupid stripper stories. Hope you enjoy.
I was 19 and working for an organization that organized and chaperoned events for high school teenagers. Knowing some of the other employees for well over 5 years, I was invited to one of the chaperon’s bachelor parties. It was your typical night of debauchery, complete with strippers in a hotel room, alcohol in a limo and strippers and alcohol at a gentlemen’s club. Okay, fine, two or three gentlemen’s clubs.
We arrive at the first club and are quickly turned away because one of the party members is under 21.Fuck. That’s me.
No big deal, though. There was another club 20 minutes away, and really, that just meant more time to get sloshed in the limo.
When we arrive at the door, the bouncer tells me that I can come in, but I need to wear a t-shirt that states that I’m under 21 years of age. I look at him, he looks back at me and we both conveniently forget that entire conversation.
Three drinks and thirty minutes go by, when one of the scantily-clad beer-fetchers saunters over to our loud, obnoxious table, knowing full well, a drunken bachelor party is a gold mine for a cocktail waitress like her. Just before she asks us what we’d like, she glances toward the far end of the table, makes eye contact with one of the older gentleman in our group, turns around and runs away as fast as possible with tears streaming down her beet-red face.
Turns out, just a few years earlier, she was a high school teenager in the organization… while he was running the program. She was mortified. Eventually, she dried her eyes and came back to speak with him, but we could tell she wasn’t right.
If we were nice guys, we would’ve left the club and gone somewhere else. Somewhere that we didn’t know anyone and couldn’t cause permanent psychological damage. But, this particular club had a shower, so uhh, she was gonna have to suck it up.
I suppose it could have been a chance encounter, but if that first club lets me in, it never even happens. We never go to the second club, I never see what a stripper looks like dancing in a shower and a waitress never winds up spending her early-20’s in and out of therapy.
Funny how that butterfly effect works, huh?
1 Comment so far
Leave a comment