I happily return to the scene of “naked chicks and booze.”
By Hannah Wallace
“I really, really enjoyed it. Very exotic!” —Phoebe, congratulating a stripper on Friends.
Ok, I can write about marathons and sailboats all I want, but I know what you all are really looking for: more Cheetah Club exploits.
And who else but Cheetah Club Boyfriend to lead me once more into the breach of the breeches-less?
Friday was my first trip back to the Cheetah since CCB infamously earned his nickname last November. (While friends and coworkers responded to the story of that last trip with an interesting mix of judgments, it also inspired an awesome Cheetah manager to offer—through this very blog—a drink on the house. However, I didn’t try to cash in on that offer for fear it had been a hoax, or, after six months, forgotten. Trying to scam free drinks is probably a strip club faux pas.)
This time, CCB had a more-than-acceptable excuse for the outing: a grand, naked sendoff for a coworker headed to military service in Iraq next week. I happily tagged along with the group of guys—and even got a special treat when the man of the evening was escorted shirtless to the stage and ordered to dance.
I do have two rules regarding strip clubs: I will not pay for entrance and I will not pay for lap dances. These, of course, are easy enough to abide by: I’m never eligible for a cover charge since couples get in free (and I’m obviously not going there without at least one close guy friend); and I’m never the one who wants to see me get a lap dance.
Who does want to see me get a lap dance? CCB, of course. He offered to purchase one, at which I instinctively winced. The very nice naked young woman picked up on my displeasure. “I don’t want to do it if she doesn’t want it,” she said. Goddammit, now I’ve insulted the stripper.
I won’t go into detail here, but let me just say I am totally clueless as to how to politely…um…accept a lap dance. I’m helpless in situations that don’t follow formal societal rules. And when those situations are naked situations? Forget about it. Seriously: How do you communicate polite-but-obligatory gratitude when your instincts are shouting, “Too close! Your boobs are too close!”
Wow. So much for not going into detail. Hi, Mom. Enjoying the blog so far? I thought you would.
Worse still, I felt a little hung out to dry by the boys’ inattentiveness; the dance was, after all, more for their benefit than for mine. “You bought me a lap dance and then no one watched!” I complained. “I was watching,” CCB assured me. “Just not staring. If you stare, the bouncers come around and tell you to buy your own dance. Then they punch you in the face. That’s why you don’t stare.” Oh, OK. Lesson learned.
Still, overall, I remain more than entertained by the manic, full-throttle depravity of the club. I think many of us are looking for some good, not-so-clean debauchery now and then. After all, we’re drinking alcohol in the first place, and not because it benefits puppies and orphans. (In fact, I’d officially like to encourage anyone who has been drinking to stay far, far away from puppies and orphans.)
And it’s tough not to have a good time in such an enthusiastic group—especially while everyone remains well behaved (thanks to the bouncers) as well as safe (thanks thanks thanks to the designated driver).
CCB even remained conscious the whole time. You see? I’m a good influence.