Tales From The Strip Club Or: The road to hell is paved with Twinkies
Oooo yes, twinkie wrestling. You were waiting with baited breath for this entry, weren't you?
The rule for this night was: If you were here (and if you were stupid enough to call out, you were fined $100...of course there were still two no-shows because some dancers never grasp the concept), you were wrestling. Even the dancer who was having serious medical problems had to wrestle. M.B. paired her up with Gwen Stefani Fan, who I feared would do serious harm (earlier in the night, she vented her disappointment over one of the two no-shows by stating "I'm gonna shove a Twinkie in her cooch."), but fortunately did not.
As for me...there was a girl who decided I was going to be her wrestling partner. Enthusiastically. Way too enthusiastic for me. "Sorry, I'm supposed to be wrestling Pierre," I said to her. She was way disappointed.
"But I wanted to wrestle you," she pouts. Oy. Get your own room. Without me.
The stage is covered with vinyl material and duct tape--only the cheapest will do for Gestapo Tony. My job when I arrive is to see which possible dancers want to pair off with whom. A lucky few are spoken for, including Gestapo Tony's dream pairing. The rest look at me, or the floor, and mumble, "dunno". Except for the part where they whine, "Could I go up first? I've been here since 12."
Between the sure-bes, the gonnabes, the whiners, and the no-shows--not to mention the one girl who really really wants to wrestle me--I manage to get a list of seven pairings to give to M.B. He returns the list with four others. Girls start to dance on the vinyl-covered ring/stage ("Bare feet only," instructs M.B.). I glance at the list before writing a copy to the dressing room. In the middle of the page reads the pairing:
(Lusting Dancer) vs. Pierre vs. YOU
Paging M.B. on the intercom, I announce, "I don't think so."
"And it took you how long to find that?" he pages back.
So after finalising the lineup--and dealing with the usual brouhaha of a dancer who decides she changed on her mind on who to wrestle at the very last second (and told too bad)--Twinkie Wrestling officially begins. Naturally, the order is different than what I was told to write because Gestapo Tony just has to have his dream pairing first. I guess when you're of a certain age, you can only keep it hard for so long.
So it starts and Twinkies are thrown by the girls and thrown by the audience, and mashed into faces and smashed into other body parts. Whatever doesn't end up on the girls or in the ring ends up on the floor. Mind you, the floor is a carpet. A black carpet.
"Who wants to see the bartender and the DJ wrestle?" announces M.B. A deafening roar from the house. Six times. Yes, M.B., the bartender and DJ will wrestle; they get it. By this point, I have an old bikini on (Ujenda, sparkly blue, circa 1996), because, yeah, I'm going to wrestle whether I like it or not.
Naturally, the bartender/DJ match is last. By this time, there are Twinkies all over the damn club, and the entire room has the stench of warm Twinkie creme aka chemical lard. Enough of a stench to arouse feelings of nausea if close enough to the source, like, um, going into a wrestling ring with Twinkies smashed around it.
Even though Pierre is built like a linebacker, it turns out I have underestimated her strength. Like the time she broke up a major catfight by throwing each girl against a separate wall, for instance. Of course, this isn't a catfight, but that doesn't stop me from being shoved down and my top being torn off within about five seconds of entering the ring. Which is when my worries began.
Worries about what, you ask? Well, if you had about $4000 of saline in silicone bags in your chest, you would have something to worry about too. Like, say, a kick, well-placed or not to one of them, causing major damage. Is this paranoia? My guess is probably, but my gut feeling is this still isn't a good idea. I wonder how to find out. I wanted to post the question on the breast augmentation support BBS I have frequented in the past, but how in the world to do so without sounding like a pervert troll? Hey there, I was wrestling in a ring filled with smashed Twinkies with another girl last Thursday night and I was wondering if doing such a thing could cause damage to my implants. Yeah.
So I'm covering my breasts--like that would really protect me--and Pierre asks, "You OK, Cyn?"
"Oh, just fine," I answer, broadsiding Pierre's forehead with a Twinkie. Down we go again. I believe I lasted another 30 seconds before enough was enough and exited the ring. I wonder how they would do this in the WWE.
We did make $30 between the two of us, plus we each got a $20 bill from a regular who knows both of us well. Yep, Twinkie-covered money.
The shower, or what passes for one at The Strip Club, is freezing by the time I get to it (stupid dancers using all the hot water), so I'm in there for minimal time. Besides, I have to get back to work.
Later, the Friday night couch dance guy snarks, "Hey Cyn, I heard you wussed out."
"I heard you don't have implants," I snapped back.
For all the fun activity going on, by the way, the couch dance count was below average. Guys are so cheap.
It was pouring rain when I left the club that night. Twinkies were still matted in my hair. I have never been glad to be in pouring rain. I let as much hit my hair as possible to get the oil and stench out. Then I washed my hair for a super-long time on Friday afternoon. I don't think it's ever been so squeaky-clean before.
*****
So I now have a new mission: find out which hotel Gestapo Tony and his wife, the Two-Faced C___ run. Not because I'm stalking them, but I want to find out just how friggin' cheap they really are.
In conversation with Bert on Friday night, on how Gestapo Tony got the wristbands for the club from his hotel bar ("They only get one free--if they lose another one, they have to pay," Bert says. Meanwhile Gestapo Tony likely got them for pennies on the dime, if he paid at all.), he tells me that the hotel--more likely a motel--in question is in a Shore town not known for having any 3-star, never mind 5-star properties.
"You've got to be kidding me," I said. "I thought they might have at least been running a Ramada."
"Nope."
Bert didn't know the name of the motel, but when Two-Faced C___ comes back to run the register during the next feature, I'm making a mental note to bring it up during "innocent" (for her, not me) conversation. Because she's going to bitch about some customer there wanting something that she likely wouldn't get off her lazy ass to do, and then I'll just sweetly ask what hotel this is anyway. Then after I check out the place, Bert and I will share a good laugh over how dilapidated the place most likely is. Just like how the carpet here, installed at the beginning of the year, now looks like shit after nine months or so. Especially since on Friday night, there were still Twinkies all over the floor.
ETA, 1:58am: Did a little net searching. By dumb luck, it was the first hotel motel I clicked on. On the travel sites, about one review in four was bad. Interestingly, for every bad review--and even some good ones if they stated something she didn't agree with--TFC would respond by basically calling said guest a liar, in one case writing, "I knew that this review was coming. I don't believe that people can lie like this!" and others insisting the reviewer in question never stayed there. Granted there's lots of scam artists out there, but really TFC, I find it too strange all the positive reviews sound too similar. This place is supposedly in the top 5 of one of the advisor sites, despite the negative reviews. Hmmmm.
*****
For work, I brought the new Evanescence album. Once again, not because I like them.
M.B.'s Favourite is enthused over this. She offers to pay me $10 to make her a copy. She wants it so badly, she pays me in advance. Since I'm just copying an album and not making a custom CD, I agree to copy it overnight.
As I'm driving to work Friday, it occured to me that it was on sale at Best Buy for that exact price that week. I know because that's where I brought it. She could have had the entire package, not just photocopied covers. Oh well. She still saved 67 cents.
The rule for this night was: If you were here (and if you were stupid enough to call out, you were fined $100...of course there were still two no-shows because some dancers never grasp the concept), you were wrestling. Even the dancer who was having serious medical problems had to wrestle. M.B. paired her up with Gwen Stefani Fan, who I feared would do serious harm (earlier in the night, she vented her disappointment over one of the two no-shows by stating "I'm gonna shove a Twinkie in her cooch."), but fortunately did not.
As for me...there was a girl who decided I was going to be her wrestling partner. Enthusiastically. Way too enthusiastic for me. "Sorry, I'm supposed to be wrestling Pierre," I said to her. She was way disappointed.
"But I wanted to wrestle you," she pouts. Oy. Get your own room. Without me.
The stage is covered with vinyl material and duct tape--only the cheapest will do for Gestapo Tony. My job when I arrive is to see which possible dancers want to pair off with whom. A lucky few are spoken for, including Gestapo Tony's dream pairing. The rest look at me, or the floor, and mumble, "dunno". Except for the part where they whine, "Could I go up first? I've been here since 12."
Between the sure-bes, the gonnabes, the whiners, and the no-shows--not to mention the one girl who really really wants to wrestle me--I manage to get a list of seven pairings to give to M.B. He returns the list with four others. Girls start to dance on the vinyl-covered ring/stage ("Bare feet only," instructs M.B.). I glance at the list before writing a copy to the dressing room. In the middle of the page reads the pairing:
(Lusting Dancer) vs. Pierre vs. YOU
Paging M.B. on the intercom, I announce, "I don't think so."
"And it took you how long to find that?" he pages back.
So after finalising the lineup--and dealing with the usual brouhaha of a dancer who decides she changed on her mind on who to wrestle at the very last second (and told too bad)--Twinkie Wrestling officially begins. Naturally, the order is different than what I was told to write because Gestapo Tony just has to have his dream pairing first. I guess when you're of a certain age, you can only keep it hard for so long.
So it starts and Twinkies are thrown by the girls and thrown by the audience, and mashed into faces and smashed into other body parts. Whatever doesn't end up on the girls or in the ring ends up on the floor. Mind you, the floor is a carpet. A black carpet.
"Who wants to see the bartender and the DJ wrestle?" announces M.B. A deafening roar from the house. Six times. Yes, M.B., the bartender and DJ will wrestle; they get it. By this point, I have an old bikini on (Ujenda, sparkly blue, circa 1996), because, yeah, I'm going to wrestle whether I like it or not.
Naturally, the bartender/DJ match is last. By this time, there are Twinkies all over the damn club, and the entire room has the stench of warm Twinkie creme aka chemical lard. Enough of a stench to arouse feelings of nausea if close enough to the source, like, um, going into a wrestling ring with Twinkies smashed around it.
Even though Pierre is built like a linebacker, it turns out I have underestimated her strength. Like the time she broke up a major catfight by throwing each girl against a separate wall, for instance. Of course, this isn't a catfight, but that doesn't stop me from being shoved down and my top being torn off within about five seconds of entering the ring. Which is when my worries began.
Worries about what, you ask? Well, if you had about $4000 of saline in silicone bags in your chest, you would have something to worry about too. Like, say, a kick, well-placed or not to one of them, causing major damage. Is this paranoia? My guess is probably, but my gut feeling is this still isn't a good idea. I wonder how to find out. I wanted to post the question on the breast augmentation support BBS I have frequented in the past, but how in the world to do so without sounding like a pervert troll? Hey there, I was wrestling in a ring filled with smashed Twinkies with another girl last Thursday night and I was wondering if doing such a thing could cause damage to my implants. Yeah.
So I'm covering my breasts--like that would really protect me--and Pierre asks, "You OK, Cyn?"
"Oh, just fine," I answer, broadsiding Pierre's forehead with a Twinkie. Down we go again. I believe I lasted another 30 seconds before enough was enough and exited the ring. I wonder how they would do this in the WWE.
We did make $30 between the two of us, plus we each got a $20 bill from a regular who knows both of us well. Yep, Twinkie-covered money.
The shower, or what passes for one at The Strip Club, is freezing by the time I get to it (stupid dancers using all the hot water), so I'm in there for minimal time. Besides, I have to get back to work.
Later, the Friday night couch dance guy snarks, "Hey Cyn, I heard you wussed out."
"I heard you don't have implants," I snapped back.
For all the fun activity going on, by the way, the couch dance count was below average. Guys are so cheap.
It was pouring rain when I left the club that night. Twinkies were still matted in my hair. I have never been glad to be in pouring rain. I let as much hit my hair as possible to get the oil and stench out. Then I washed my hair for a super-long time on Friday afternoon. I don't think it's ever been so squeaky-clean before.
*****
So I now have a new mission: find out which hotel Gestapo Tony and his wife, the Two-Faced C___ run. Not because I'm stalking them, but I want to find out just how friggin' cheap they really are.
In conversation with Bert on Friday night, on how Gestapo Tony got the wristbands for the club from his hotel bar ("They only get one free--if they lose another one, they have to pay," Bert says. Meanwhile Gestapo Tony likely got them for pennies on the dime, if he paid at all.), he tells me that the hotel--more likely a motel--in question is in a Shore town not known for having any 3-star, never mind 5-star properties.
"You've got to be kidding me," I said. "I thought they might have at least been running a Ramada."
"Nope."
Bert didn't know the name of the motel, but when Two-Faced C___ comes back to run the register during the next feature, I'm making a mental note to bring it up during "innocent" (for her, not me) conversation. Because she's going to bitch about some customer there wanting something that she likely wouldn't get off her lazy ass to do, and then I'll just sweetly ask what hotel this is anyway. Then after I check out the place, Bert and I will share a good laugh over how dilapidated the place most likely is. Just like how the carpet here, installed at the beginning of the year, now looks like shit after nine months or so. Especially since on Friday night, there were still Twinkies all over the floor.
ETA, 1:58am: Did a little net searching. By dumb luck, it was the first hotel motel I clicked on. On the travel sites, about one review in four was bad. Interestingly, for every bad review--and even some good ones if they stated something she didn't agree with--TFC would respond by basically calling said guest a liar, in one case writing, "I knew that this review was coming. I don't believe that people can lie like this!" and others insisting the reviewer in question never stayed there. Granted there's lots of scam artists out there, but really TFC, I find it too strange all the positive reviews sound too similar. This place is supposedly in the top 5 of one of the advisor sites, despite the negative reviews. Hmmmm.
*****
For work, I brought the new Evanescence album. Once again, not because I like them.
M.B.'s Favourite is enthused over this. She offers to pay me $10 to make her a copy. She wants it so badly, she pays me in advance. Since I'm just copying an album and not making a custom CD, I agree to copy it overnight.
As I'm driving to work Friday, it occured to me that it was on sale at Best Buy for that exact price that week. I know because that's where I brought it. She could have had the entire package, not just photocopied covers. Oh well. She still saved 67 cents.