Now on the center stage...Sierra

Saturday night, I had the pleasure of attending my old roommate's bachelor party. I spent most of my day lugging stones and digging holes in my backyard, so I was incredibly sore by the 10 p.m. start time. My friend's a good guy though and I didn't want to back out, so I took a couple of Tylenol with codeine, cleaned up and met him and a bunch of guys I didn't know. The fourteen of us packed into a stretch SUV (which is an entirely uncomfortable vehicle despite its roomy appearance) and we headed for East St. Louis, home of some of organized crimes most lucrative strip clubs. So that's how I find myself in a strip club for the first time in almost 10 years, and hopefully for the last time in just as long a period of time.

Now, don't get me wrong, I like naked women. A lot. So much that it may be unhealthy. I mean I really like them. Geez, just look at my web page history. Er...I mean...well... Boobies are neat. That being said. I hate strip clubs. They reek of desperation and stupidity. From the moment you walk in and have the 5'10", 105 lb, anorexic girl with the largest set of fake tits you've seen this side of your computer monitor jump in your face and push a six dollar beer on you, to the moment you can't control your laughter at the shut-in sitting at the stage with an entranced look as he drops bill after bill in front of the naked woman fake kissing him on the neck - a strip club is a scam. It's a world of bullshit shoveled by carnival acts with laser cut landing strips decorating their perfumed crotches.

Out of the twenty or so strippers in the place, only two had realistic body types. For the most part the girls looked like they'd ridden the cocaine rollercoaster a few too many times. Their globes of silicone were complimented by jagged pelvic bones, jutting ribs, and spines that protruded so much you could see the glow from the electrical activity in their spinal cords. One stripper was sporting a lovely coccyx that you could hold onto for an extra dollar. After seeing the condition of these poor girls, I realized that the bouncer at the door wasn't to keep the customers in line. Instead, his job was to prevent the girls from escaping and making it to the barbecue vendor set up in the parking lot. Armed with only a taser, it was this lone man's job to make sure that no cheeseburger made it into the holding area.

But, as repulsive as this is, some guys like it. Each to his own. No accounting for taste. Different strokes for different folks (okay...that one may be the most appropriate phrase). But how can any guy maintain his self respect when his face is buried deep in a woman's crotch, in the middle of a bar, and he needs to call for a medic to repair the damage to his left cheek caused by her pelvis. But there they sat. Eyes closed, inhaling lung fulls of feminine deoderant spray. Constantly pushing the line dividing where they were and were not allowed to touch. Constantly seeing how far that line moved depending on how much money they had to offer.

Then there were the fratboys. The guys whose manhoods depended on how rude they could be. After all, here they are allowed to denigrate, sexualize, harass, and demean the woman in front of them as much as they want. The only catch is, they have to dole out cash to make up for their crassness. This is an easy trade for them Yet, even they, as they point out how many different ways they can fill all of the holes in a particular dancer's body, harbor the hidden thought that the stripper is actually into them. That they can take any of these girls home. That they have a chance.

So yeah, the clubs are pathetic. They're fun to go to as a joke, or maybe as a last ditch effort to drink the night away, but to go here for a sexual release or fantasy fulfillment is ridiculously silly. However, if you're a sarcastic person, who can be a bit of an ass, they're goldmines of material. After about the fourth $9 Maker's Mark, I realized had a few observations, some of which I text messaged to a group of friends who were engaged in an activity that I truly enjoy - sitting around the backyard drinking cheap wine and hanging out.

Observations:

1. If your girl jumps up on stage with the stripper and takes her clothes off, you should face the fact that she's probably a whore.

2. If the stripper's head is in your crotch, she's probably trying to steal your wallet.

3. I touched the door handle. I may need a hepatitis booster.

4. What's that smell? Oh! It's a future dead hooker.

5. Dude, I bet she really will fuck you for $20 more dollars.

6. No man, no one thinks you're pathetic. I mean, sure, you're a sixty year old man who just paid $40 for some girl to dry hump him while "No Diggity" played in the background. And sure, you should probably change your pants to hide that spot. And, oh yeah, your dick is gonna fall off when you get home. But no, nobody here thinks you're pathetic.

7. No honey, I wasn't trying to get your attention. I was trying to watch the poker game on the screen behind you.

8. Yay venereal disease.

9. Okay...all of the psychology majors...take off your g-strings.

10. Nice c-section scar.

Yeah...I think I've had my fill of East St. Louis for a while.