Valentimes Day (crosspost)
So:
My father had more best friends than anybody. Tonight, one of those guys showed up on my doorstep as Kevin and I were headed to Taco Mesa. Derr-unk. So I shuffle him into his rental car and take him with us to Taco Mesa. On the way over, he offers(repeatedly) to take us out for steak or whatever, but we are firm in our desire for nachos. I know he wants to keep the party going, so I suggest we get a beer, and wind up at Patsy's on Jeronimo(Kevin went home). In the course of the evening's conversation my father and Rocky's adventures in titty bars came up, at which point I confessed that I had never been to one, beginning a long debate over whether or not that's where we spend the remainder of our evening.
Rocky's an old drunk guy, but he's pretty persuasive, and this was on his dime, so.
Observations about Captain Cream
Never, Not Since my last viewing of Showgirls, did I imagine a world in which I would become bored of looking at lacy black g-string underwear. To obey the letter and violate the spirit of obscenity laws, some girls would peel off their black g-strings to reveal skimpier black g-strings.
the DJ would play interstital tunes between dance songs; so I'm amused to report that the music for the first portion of the first lapdance was fucking Safety Dance. Laughter stifled.
Also, laughter stifled at the many, many variations on the booty quake I witnessed at various forms of intimacy. There's something hilariously notsexy about that, with humor compounded in correlation to how caucasian the dancer is.
"Honey, seriously, if I wanted to be an OBGYN I would have gone to med school"
Elle? Killer backrub.
Hazy recollection notwithstanding this was the first night anyone has ever grabbed and *bit* nipple. Through my T-shirt.
Showgirls seem to share a nasal timber to their voices and a prediliction toward embarassing mispronunciation. With that said, I was surprised to find myself discussing Jesus Camp and the Evangelical movement during my final(sixth) lap dance of the evening.
Don't tell a dancer you're working through a lot of liberal feminist guilt while she's rubbing her boobies on you. I think she took it to mean I'm teh gay.
Even whenst throwing dollar bills at a gyrating crotch, one can be considered a "gentleman" presuming you make eye contact and smile. I...didn't feel like much of a gentleman.
There were moments of polework so impressive I thought the dancer was actually in danger--slapping ass against the ceiling, I thought of spider monkeys, or Batman shooting up the batpole to change out of costume.
Hell, One girl actually used a firestick to light her crotch aflame. That's fuckin' showmanship.
The sound system is choice, and the atmosphere and decor have a lot to offer--but there's nowhere to dance. Like, yeah, I understand why this is the case, but I get a buzz on and hear thumpy loud music I want to groove.
I had two women tell me what a great husband I would make. My sexless eunoch charms aren't lost on even the most jaded of strippers.
Though I clearly, clearly prefer the natural physique, implants have numerous advantages for the exotic performer.
being molested for cash 6 times by 4 different women (Ginger, Bailey, Lisa, Elle, Ginger, Ginger) doesn't make you feel that great about yourself, though there goes any lingering doubts of my heterosexuality. ahem.
I'm a get blazed and cry myself to sleep.
My father had more best friends than anybody. Tonight, one of those guys showed up on my doorstep as Kevin and I were headed to Taco Mesa. Derr-unk. So I shuffle him into his rental car and take him with us to Taco Mesa. On the way over, he offers(repeatedly) to take us out for steak or whatever, but we are firm in our desire for nachos. I know he wants to keep the party going, so I suggest we get a beer, and wind up at Patsy's on Jeronimo(Kevin went home). In the course of the evening's conversation my father and Rocky's adventures in titty bars came up, at which point I confessed that I had never been to one, beginning a long debate over whether or not that's where we spend the remainder of our evening.
Rocky's an old drunk guy, but he's pretty persuasive, and this was on his dime, so.
Observations about Captain Cream
Never, Not Since my last viewing of Showgirls, did I imagine a world in which I would become bored of looking at lacy black g-string underwear. To obey the letter and violate the spirit of obscenity laws, some girls would peel off their black g-strings to reveal skimpier black g-strings.
the DJ would play interstital tunes between dance songs; so I'm amused to report that the music for the first portion of the first lapdance was fucking Safety Dance. Laughter stifled.
Also, laughter stifled at the many, many variations on the booty quake I witnessed at various forms of intimacy. There's something hilariously notsexy about that, with humor compounded in correlation to how caucasian the dancer is.
"Honey, seriously, if I wanted to be an OBGYN I would have gone to med school"
Elle? Killer backrub.
Hazy recollection notwithstanding this was the first night anyone has ever grabbed and *bit* nipple. Through my T-shirt.
Showgirls seem to share a nasal timber to their voices and a prediliction toward embarassing mispronunciation. With that said, I was surprised to find myself discussing Jesus Camp and the Evangelical movement during my final(sixth) lap dance of the evening.
Don't tell a dancer you're working through a lot of liberal feminist guilt while she's rubbing her boobies on you. I think she took it to mean I'm teh gay.
Even whenst throwing dollar bills at a gyrating crotch, one can be considered a "gentleman" presuming you make eye contact and smile. I...didn't feel like much of a gentleman.
There were moments of polework so impressive I thought the dancer was actually in danger--slapping ass against the ceiling, I thought of spider monkeys, or Batman shooting up the batpole to change out of costume.
Hell, One girl actually used a firestick to light her crotch aflame. That's fuckin' showmanship.
The sound system is choice, and the atmosphere and decor have a lot to offer--but there's nowhere to dance. Like, yeah, I understand why this is the case, but I get a buzz on and hear thumpy loud music I want to groove.
I had two women tell me what a great husband I would make. My sexless eunoch charms aren't lost on even the most jaded of strippers.
Though I clearly, clearly prefer the natural physique, implants have numerous advantages for the exotic performer.
being molested for cash 6 times by 4 different women (Ginger, Bailey, Lisa, Elle, Ginger, Ginger) doesn't make you feel that great about yourself, though there goes any lingering doubts of my heterosexuality. ahem.
I'm a get blazed and cry myself to sleep.