Tales from Da Club #44

“The very first person I ever put onstage was my mom.”

After my band’s gig at Half Step on Rainey Thursday night, the afterparty found me at The Landing Strip sandwiched next to DJ Throwed, also a member of the band, who was regaling me with stories of how he got his job as a strip club deejay.

“I was thirteen, and I was sooo nervous, but my mom said, “You got this, Donny. I know you can do this.”

A story of a teenager spinning tunes for his very supportive mom while she stripped onstage was wild, but no wilder than this club. I had thought Rick’s was a bit hoodrat, but this place made Rick’s look like a debutante ball. On the way in, the bouncer greeted us at the door wearing a shirt that read, “Ur too pretty for small dick.” Someone referred to him as Chicken Wang. Another person corrected him and said, “Dude, he’s the whole chicken.” 

Several people in the club had been to our show earlier that evening and greeted our entourage enthusiastically as we walked in. I felt a little bit famous. 

Shortly after giving me the warm fuzzies with his heartwarming coming-of-age tale, Donny bounced away, leaving me alone with DJ Rob, whose attention was immediately diverted by a dancer walking by with lights gleaming from her nether regions. We were both immediately fascinated and called her over to our table. The light turned out to be a small flashlight. In her vagina.

“I’m a real performer,” she informed us proudly, immediately whipping out her phone and scrolling through her photo gallery with fingernails too long to function. She pulled up a video of herself onstage, displaying a sparkler. Also in her vagina. 

Then she pulled up another video of the same vagina, this time holding a candle into which she blew tiki torch fluid to create a fireball between her legs. The video didn’t show her head, so at first I thought she was just farting into the candle and the methane was expanding the flame, but I’m a lowbrow who should be ashamed of myself for thinking this way. Of course, I’m not at all ashamed of myself for thinking this way, so now I’m wondering if that can even be done. Some experimentation may in order . . . Or maybe I’ll just youTube it. I can’t be the only idiot who’s wondered about this.

The lights went on at 2 am, shortly after we arrived, and my exhausted self figured I was off the hook for afterpartying with the band at that point, but noooooo. Apparently strip club deejays get after hours privileges. Donny bounced back with more stories of touring with Ludacris, who had a color changing constellation on the ceiling of his tour bus and also fucked Donny’s girlfriend. He then told another story of being driven to the liquor store by Stevie Wonder. 

“You know he probably wrecked 90 cars making this drive,” Donny said, “but at this point, he had it *down.* I was sure shittin’ my pants though!”

I have observed that people in the music industry love dropping Stevie Wonder’s name. Earlier that evening, a dapper gentlemen in a sequined coat at Half Step had introduced himself as a manager of several local bands and asked me to take a photo with him. “I’m gonna send it to Stevie Wonder! Ask my brother; we’re really good friends!” he said, leaving me to wonder why anyone would send a photo to Stevie Wonder. Stevie Wonder don’t give a FUCK about your photos.

The evening wore on. I became horizontal in my chair. Strip clubs have very comfortable chairs. These were made of fabric, which was nice because they absorbed all the butt sweat that the leather seats at Rick’s do not. I often leave a chair wet and cover up my embarrassment by informing the client, “The butt sweat is free. We don’t charge for that.”

A girl with a beautiful dimple and hair tucked into her hat walked over and cooed at me. “You look so cool!” 

“Thanks!” Donny responded. 

“Shut up, Donny, I wasn’t talking to you,” she shot back.

DJ Rob nudged me. “She’s a porn star,” he whispered.

She heard DJ Rob and immediately snapped her attention back to us. “Did you hear?” Her voice was shrill and nasal and annoying. “I got 1.2 million hits on PornHub!” She immediately whipped out her phone and pulled up the video to show us. I watched it to be polite. It struck me as very run-of-the-mill gang bang porn. Someone observed that one of the guys in the video had been at our show that night.

“I made twenty thousand dollars from that video,” PornStar informed us. She kept grunting through her nose, much like a pig does, and I wondered if that was part of her unique charm. 

At the risk of sounding 88 years old, I sometimes think that the day the lid closed on Aubrey Hepburn’s coffin was the last day class, grace, kindness and wisdom was valued in our celebrities. I am often amazed at the propensity of the American public, enabled by a press struggling to remain relevant, to elevate and highly compensate its bottom-feeders.

Of course, I say this as a person who just made fart jokes. 

I left before I could fall asleep at the strip club. I have a theory that if I ever fell asleep at a strip club, one of the dancers would paint her pussy with bright red lipstick and “kiss” me on the forehead with it. Then I’d wake up and walk all over town the next day with no clue that I had a bright red imprint of a vagina on my forehead.

And I’m just going to end this super long, rambling post right there, with that that image bouncing around in your head as my gift to you. Happy Holidays, ya’ll!

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