You come wit me now, white boy!

from: Steve & Mike
20 Mar 2004

I was out enjoying a few drinks with my old friend Cureton when he suggested we run out to the local strip club for a little entertainment. I am not categorically opposed to strip clubs. Occasionally indulging in a little fantasy is usually harmless as long as a person doesn't start whoring all over the place. Plus, not every single stripper I have met in my life has been a mindless, vapid whore, although most of them are, so I will not denounce them as a whole, either. The real advantage of a strip club is that a person can usually get a bottle of beer for a dollar and the scenery is a bit easier on the eyes than the urban apaches one usually finds populating the watering holes in San Antonio. So we settled in with a couple of drinks and began fending off the 'dancers' who circle the bar like vampire bats looking for a vein to latch onto. This is the usual modus operandi for these single mothers, drug addicts and high school drop outs without the talent to become bar tenders. When they are not on stage they cruise from table to table in their bikinis and lingerie and alight on one patron after the other, sitting on their laps and putting their arms around their necks, asking if 'honey' or 'baby' would like a private dance. This is where the real money is made. If a dancer can talk a patron into a private dance they lead him off to the side of the room and drop them in an empty chair or booth. They will then take off what little clothes they have on and proceed to rub their tits and ass all over him. This goes on for approximately 120 seconds at which point she will climb off the poor bastard's lap, put her bikini back on and say, "20 bucks, Mike." Yes, 20 dollars for two minutes of ass grinding. In our first 20 minutes there I had already turned away four girls when one she-beast settled on me like the black plague. She was black, in fact. She was a 6 foot Zulu tribeswoman, towering over me with her giant white teeth and her ironed- straight hair. She made Grace Jones in that Conan movie look like Anna Kournikova. She said, "You come wit me now, white boy, I show you gooood time." It was more of an order than a question. "I'm sorry," I said, "I'm really not ready for a dance, I..." "You come wit me NOW!" she interrupted, putting a hand under my arm and yanking me out of my seat. To tell you the truth I was a little afraid of her. So I let her push me over to a seat by the wall where she began literally slapping me in the face with her giant, pointy nipples for a couple of minutes. She was about to roll into a second song for a 40 dollar whammy when I slipped a 20 into her G-string and bolted back to the table. "Let's get the fuck outta this clip joint," I said, button- holing Steve and heading for the door. But it was when we got back to my apartment that I learned just how much I owed to my statuesque, voodoo princess. When we walked through the door and I turned on the light Cureton took one look at me and gasped. "Holy shit, Taylor," he said, "your face is totally red and covered with bumps!" I dashed to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. He wasn't exaggerating. I looked like I had third degree sunburn. I don't know what that beast was wearing on her skin, boiled cow urine, yak's dung or what, but everywhere she touched me I had broken out in huge, ugly, red splotches. That was the night before last, and the worst ones are still faintly visible. So here's my tip for strip clubbing: if she's just walking out of the bathroom don't let her rub her ass all over your face.



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