greenery for the scenery… {because i told myself in a phone memo to title it this}

{This post will be written in three parts.  Before the event and my thoughts leading up to it, A play-by-play of the event and then my thoughts the day after the event.}

A few nights ago I was babysitting some friends at our local bar (because I am a tee-totaler and never drink… almost… well except for drunko and birthdays and barbecues and Christmas Parties and on the lake and… wow.  I am a boozer.)  Okay, let’s try that again.

The other night after drunko, a few of the gals and I hit the local seedy, dive bar that is the epitome of fun here in our little town, and as I glided {read: stumbled} into the bathroom, what should my eyes behold but a poster advertising the upcoming “Playgirl Male Review/Chippendale” dancers coming to our town.  You know when?  A couple of days before my birthday {It’s Sunday, THIS Sunday; feel free to stop by with gifts.}  So of course my stupid drunk self decided to announce to all my fellow drunkos that we HAVE to do this for our birthdays (a few of us have them in October- which means our parents had sex on Valentine’s Day.)   Pretty much a done deal.  The tickets were purchased a couple of days later and a small group of girls were committed.

Then… doubt set in.  I have never seen a male stripper.  I’ve heard stories from some of my pervy friends who’ve seen them.  Some of them considered leaving their husbands to shack up with their future sex slaves, and others just said it was the most hilarious time of their lives.  I’m sure it will be a laugh a minute, but I am also scared as hell.  What do you wear that doesn’t say “Hey, I’m a horny cougar that wants you to gyrate all over me?”  Furthermore, and probably more importantly, what doesn’t say “Hey, I’m a boring housewife that needs you to come over here and gyrate all over me to show me how exciting I can be?”  Because really, I don’t think I want to be gyrated all over.  I think I’m going to throw up.  I’m really scared.

Skip ahead to 6:30 pm Tuesday Night  {YES! A school night.  We are freaking wreckless!}  I had barely eaten anything before my pals and I met for dinner.  So I split a salad with someone.  And had a long island iced tea.   READY TO ROLL.  No more nerves for this gal.  Bring on the naked men.  We staked our place in the den of shame and waited for the fun to begin.

Can I just tell you that not one of these men was good looking?  They certainly did send the D squad to our A list town!  The only one with a smokin’ hot body was really ugly in the face.   And I need a good face.  A good face will buy you a free pass to have a freaking beer belly and ugly feet in my world.  An ugly face nullifies your hotness.  Apparently, with a bit of liquid stupidity (not to be confused with liquid courage, I have plenty of courage stone cold sober.) ugly faces don’t so much matter really.  I was determined not to be one of those bat-shit crazy  “moms on the loose” type people, but this was my freaking idea so I needed to be a bit of a good time.  And, I had to research every part of this experience for you.  It’s my duty to fully report to my loyal readers all that there is to experience in this world.

Do you KNOW what they have to offer at an evening  such as this{besides of course Broadway calliber dance routines that result in the loss of brilliant costumery} ? Thirty seconds of heaven in what is called the Hot Seat.  (My dear friend Jen likes to call it the Wet Seat just to make me throw up in my mouth,  but it is, in fact, called the Hot Seat.  Hot is better than wet.  Repeat that with me: Hot. Is. Better. Than. Wet!)  For five bucks, one can sit up on stage in front of God and everyone and be, you guessed it, gyrated upon by a sweaty stud.  And if you are daring enough, you can even stick your hands in his thong and deposit additional dollars.   {The preferred method of depositing your initial $5 is via your boob cleavage or sometimes even the waste band of your jeans.  No/Minimal belly fat is suggested for option #2.}

I’m totally skipping ahead of myself here… let’s go back to the beginning.  The first “dance” of the evening was to be dedicated to one lucky lady nominated by her friends as the “Woman who’s gone the longest without Gettin’ Any.”  Whew, coast was clear for me!  Do you know who that woman happened to be?  A SEVENTY-SIX year old woman named Pat that I freaking thought was going to have a god-damned heart attack right there in her wet, er…. hot seat!  It was funny and sweet and utterly pathetic all at the same time.  I had a schizophrenic array of emotions for her.   She came out of it alive and looking quite satisfied.  I wanted to take a shower.

The night continued along those lines.  I needed a pitcher of beer and two shots.  I’m not freaking exaggerating.  I don’t know how I don’t have alcohol poisoning.  I knew I might not remember a lot of details, and I also knew it would be my duty to document this evening for all of womankind, so I typed some notes into my iPhone.  I’ll just go ahead and copy them letter for letter here for you to relive with me.

“Why would lesbians be here? To watch men take off their clothes?”  {this was apparently a pre-point because I hadn’t started numbering yet.}

1. Skeezy emcee says: “For ten dollars you and one of your girlfriends can win a chance to rub down all us men in all our haaaard to reach places with oil.”  Emphasis on the hard while grabbing self.  Ew.

2.  For five bucks you can sign yourself- or your friends- up for seven minutes of heaven (or like 15 seconds in something called the hot seat. WTF?)

3.  Miss Pat.  The 76 yr old who ain’t got none in a long looong while.  Don’tfreakingfroget miss opat.

4.  Three Little Words:  TAKE IT OFFF.

5.  Put Some Greenery in ThE Scemery.  Thisis a gret title.

6.  Jen asked her mom for five dollars for ass money.  they are going in the hot seat at the same time.   HER monm is so much better thanmy mom.  I’m so nott  doing this with elle.  ever.  maybe.  i think.

7.  That freaking cowbow motorboated ne.

8.  It’s a school night.  Fuck.

9. For fivebucks you can get. Tshirt that says I paid.  20 buks an all i got was crabs.


crabs down under

{insert sober me here:  I have NO idea what the hell crabs down under means.  I mean, in relation to what I was supposed to write about it.}

10.  Strippers:  beware. We cansee you wiping your sweaty asscrax when u think ur backstage.  It kinds of ruins the moog.  (as she dries right uupp.)

11.  she mnuids  fufbsa.  {sober me says go home.  now.}

So yep, I paid five bucks, in my boob cleavage, to get my turn in the HOT seat.  There’s video coverage of it.  Even as I type I’m not sure if I’ll include it here.  There are two reasons.  Both are very important.  First, because every time I look at it I have to cover one eye and I then feel dirty for thirty minutes afterward.  Secondly, because when I’m drunk I forget to suck in and the idea of my fat roll being published here is almost as unacceptable as the fact that I have a fat roll.

Oh well, what the hell?

And here we are today, when I finally recover from my massive hangover and get my shit together.  As you may have sensed, the sober me is a little grossed out by the sweaty stripper remnants all over me.  My particular guy was SO sweaty and he thought it would be sexy to rub my hand up and down his rock hard (and somewhat impressive) abs every single time he was in my vicinity.  And even more than that, the sober me realized that there were a LOT of overly friendly and possibly less concerned with good hygiene women all over these guys before they touched me.  So I was basically dry humped by approximately 117 women plus two men in a two hour window of time.  I can sum up my feelings about the night in one little sentence.  “I came home and showered a la Crying Game shower scene three times.”

And I clung to my husband like a needy high school cheerleader for two days.   {All the while, he laughed at me.}  He asked me if I felt like I cheated on him.  {I’m still not so sure about that one.   I don’t think so.}  Not to get too serious here, but I think I am just so relieved to have an awesome husband to come home to, and not be desperately needy of the attentions of a buttaface stripper, that I just wanted to hold onto him for a couple of days.  Or maybe I am still  drunk.  I dunno.

So, to answer all of your questions:

  • Am I glad I went?  Uh… YES!  A night with my favorite girls doing anything is AWESOME.  I had one hell of a birthday night.  Including (or despite of?) the strippers.  It was a great night.  Plus, everyone should experience strippers once!
  • Was it worth 15 bucks?  I can’t think of many things that aren’t worth 15 bucks.
  • Did I enjoy the men?  Not really.  I enjoyed the fact that I experienced it.  Does that make sense?
  • Will I do it again?  If I take hand sanitizer.  For my whole body.
  • YES! I smacked him on the ass.  It was more like one of those pats you give at the end of a hug to tell the person you’re all done.  I promise.