Girls, Girls, Girls,
At The Dollhouse in Fort Lauderdale.
Girls, Girls Girls,
Rockin in Atlanta at The Tattletale.
-Motley Crue Girls Girls Girls
So let me tell you about my weekend. Friday night was to be the night of Woodshed Player Deuce’s bachelor party. He’ll be marrying Woodshed Player Leigh in just a few short weeks, and the rest of us decided to send him into marriage in style.
We grilled out some steaks and drank a few dozen beers at the Narnia Harem. It was an unusually warm day in Atlanta, so we spent most of the evening in the yard around the fire. Our original plan was to go to The Pink Pony, which is a really nice gentleman’s club, but Wiley suggested we go somewhere else. ‘The Pink Pony is too nice.” He said. “We need some sleaze.” I concurred wholeheartedly. We settled on The Tattle Tale.
The Tattle Tale is an Atlanta landmark, at least as far as I’m concerned. Up until recently it was probably best known for being mentioned in the Motley Crue hit, Girls Girls Girls from the album with the same title (which I own on vinyl). Evidently, some doucher named Josh Duhamel who is married to that douchette, Fergie, hooked up with a stripper from there. We should not be shocked by his decision making skills from here on out, given that he, A.) Married Fergie, and B.) Cheated on her with a stripper who then went to the tabloids. I ain’t sayin she’s a gold digger…
There are really two trains of thought as far as (legit) strip clubs go. You can either have the really hot strippers with fake parts without any blemishes who are unobtainable, or you can have slightly less hot strippers that are real and unobtainable. The Pink Pony is the former and The Tattle Tale is the latter. I prefer the latter. These are the kinds of beanheads that you’d have no chance with, but if you met them in a bar, you’d probably still bother to try.
The Woodshed Crew, Me, Deuce, Wiley, Arizona Bill, and Deuce’s brother, Chad, paid our cover charge and the waitress hooked us up with a table right by the main stage. I knew I was gonna dig this place as soon I walked in and AC/DC was playing.
The first stripper was pretty hot, so I stood up and gave her a dollar dollar bill, yo. I enjoy encounters with strippers. They get treated like a commodity so often that if you break that mold just a little bit, you often get some interesting results. When I gave her the money, she asked what my name was. “Biloxi.” I replied. “What’s yours?” She told me but I had a hard time hearing it. “How old are you?” She asked. “27.” I replied. Then she says, “Wow. You look a lot younger than that.” “Well, I do a lot of lunges,” was my response. She got a pretty good chuckle out of that one.
After that, they had this two-for-one deal, where you could get lap dances, well, two-for one. (Just in case you’re wondering, lap dances are sold by the song. So two-for-one means you get a lap dance that lasts 2 songs.) They have this thing where all the girls get out on the stage and dance and then you select the one you’d like to get a lap dance from. I wasn’t planning on purchasing a lap dance, but this one girl came up to me and she looked an awful lot someone I went to high school with, so I obliged her. Curiosity killed the cat, as they say.
She started into her little routine and it was quite nice, I might add. I asked her her name and she said it was Zoey. Obviously a stripper name. She asked me mine and we went through that old chestnut. Then I noticed she had some pretty unique stripper shoes on, so I asked her where she got them. She told me this website she ordered them from, turns out it’s the same company that makes the boots for KISS. We then proceeded to spend the entirety of the next song discussing unique stripper shoes. When the song ended, I gave her a tip and she made me stand so I could see the difference that 8-inch stripper heels make. Odd, you might say, but you meet the most interesting people at the nudie bar.
I guess Wiley was starting to get a bit drunk by this point, so he got up and started throwing dollar bills at the stage. The DJ was yelling out, “Make it rain! Make it rain!” Then Wiley stopped throwing money and the DJ goes, “Aww, make it drizzle.” That was pretty much the motto for the evening from that point forward.
The most entertaining portion of the evening for me came a bit later on. I stood up to tip another stripper a dollar and like the one previously, she asked me my name. I gave her my first name, not Biloxi, and she’s like, “Wow! That’s my first name too! I don’t go by that on stage though.” Then a strange thing happened. She shook my hand. If you’ve never been to strip club, you should know that you’re not really supposed to touch strippers. One might give you a hug, if she’s off the stage or if you’ve met her before, but it’s pretty damn odd for one to shake your hand while on stage.
She, I believe she went by Leslie, then started ruffling my hair. “How long do you spend on that?” She asked. “I just get out of the shower and let it go. This is how it turns out.” I responded. She says, “I really like it. It’s so soft. Strippers really dig guys with nice hair.” “I have absolutely no problems with that.” I said.
There were a few more words exchanged and she may or may not have told me to Facebook her, but I walked away thinking, “That had to have been the longest conversation with a stripper on stage ever. And I’m pretty sure she was hitting on me. She might have just been trying to make a dollar, but she already had the money, why not just let it go at that?”
We capped off the evening by going to Fontaine’s and shutting that joint down. As we were leaving, I decided to run across the street and grab a Gatorade from the gas station. When I walked in, I noticed a woman sitting on the curb. She was dressed up, and she was drunk as piss, and she obviously wasn’t homeless. But I didn’t really pay her much attention. I walked inside and grabbed my drink and when I came back out, this woman was face down in the parking lot.
I was about three sheets to the wind at this point, but it just didn’t seem right to step over this woman and just walk my happy ass on home. So I tried to help her up and that’s when I noticed all the blood pouring out of her forehead. Awesome. I got her sitting up on the curb again and asked her where she lived. “Roswell.” She replied. We’re sure as hell weren’t anywhere near Roswell and she certainly wasn’t coming home to die on my couch. I told one of the other guys standing around to call the police or an ambulance. In the meantime, one of the gas station attendants brought out some paper towels and rubbing alcohol to clean up her face. Freaking rubbing alcohol!
I got one of the paper towels wet down with the rubbing alcohol and handed it to her. “This is gonna burn like hell, honey.” I told her as she wiped down her face. She didn’t even flinch, and the blood certainly didn’t stop coming out. I just told her to hold her hand up against it till the ambulance got there. Evidently, she had tried to stand up and fell and hit her temple on one of those concrete parking blocks. I’m really surprised it didn’t knock her out. The cops showed up and Bill and Wiley and I just sorta disappeared. We weren’t really in the best shape to be conversing with Johnny Law.
All in all, a pretty damn entertaining weekend. And I haven’t even gotten to Saturday night or the wedding at 11:00 Sunday morning…
Dude, You you need to facebook that stripper. then you could make it drizzle in her butt.
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