Lessons Learned by SG at strip clubs

I was telling some friends recently about my last trip to Minneapolis and how I visited not one, but two, strip clubs in four days.

“Our little SG in strip clubs! I thought you hated strip clubs!!”

Not true.

Indeed, I have been hot and cold on The Club over the past years, but I actually have no problem with them. I find them to be funny and fascinating.

And seriously, if you could look me in the eye and tell me you don’t like boobs I would answer only “lying liar who lies!”

“Well, why the hell are you blogging about limerick’s when you should be writing about strippers then?!”

Touché.

I used to go to strip clubs from time to time when I was in college, because people would give me fistfuls of money if I took my shirt off, which I thought was a pretty sweet deal.

Kidding. Or am I …

I had a friend who was a stripper (she was also from Scranton, PA, of The Office fame, which I think is a much more interesting detail) so sometimes we’d stop by once we were good and drunk. It reminded me of the Soprano’s in that the girls were kind of like pretty background for your conversation. And because the place was always full of overweight Mafiosos. Holla for Youngstown! Wesssside. Home of Jim Traficant.

It’s true I went through a serious anti-stripper phase, but this was completely justified. I had a BF who would actually go there BY HIMSELF on a very regular basis and lie to me and say he was working. Why lie? I didn’t have a problem with it until he started lying. Maybe he lied because before he dated me he dated a stripper and he went to the club where she worked while I was at home cooking dinner and watching Deadliest Catch.

Creep. Yes.

I digress. The point is I had a very specific problem with strip clubs that disappeared when that hot mess was disposed of.

So, when VC mentioned there was a particularly gross strip club in Mpls where it would just happen to be amateur night when I was there, I was excited. This says something about me. I'm not sure what.

Whenever he would text in the weeks leading up to it I would tell him I was at the gym and he would say “WHY?!?” -- because we’re both sort of opposed to being sweaty -- and I would say “Got to get this bod in shape for Am Night.” Wherein he would inform me that I needed to develop a pretty serious crack habit to blend in to that scene.

I had no intention of being a participant.

Little did I know …

Let me say first, that SG started drinking – straight bourbon – at 4 p.m. that day. She had at least four, maybe five, shots with her friend Jim Beam as well as quite a few beers so that, by the time she arrived at this lovely lounge she was quite intoxicated.

At one point I got up to use the restroom meaning that I had to walk directly passed the stage – twice!

Now let me interject that this story is being relayed to you mostly through reconstruction by VC. I don’t particularly recall the details.

I do recall being absolutely transfixed by the ass of a stripper on my way back from the restroom. I felt like a lit little firefly and that girl’s backside was a bug light.

I’m kind of clumsy (if you read this blog, you know this) and I don’t really dance so much as jerk my body from side to side Elaine-style. But, that night I really wanted to learn how she made that booty bounce, and she was happy to show me.

I can only imagine what the sight was like. SG imploring the stripper to “Show me how you do that with your butt!” and her obliging. VC watching, I’m sure dismayed, at the spectacle I was making of myself.

After my lesson in the Tootsie Roll, I somehow made it back to my stool at the bar. Or kind of.

Why do they make chairs that drunk people sit in without backs? This makes no sense. Luckily, I had my new stripper friends who helped me by pushing me back onto my stool until, inevitably, I took my nightly spill.

“You’re ass touched the floor of the strip club!” VC said, with disgust, the next day.

He was equally horrified when I pull a pen that smelled like cherry-scented perfume and bubble gum emblazoned with the club’s name out of my purse. Ah … the smell of topless dancers.

There’s no lesson to be learned from this story. No life-changing insights. Except maybe that SG can make friends with anyone – be they the nun at my office or the stripper at Am Night – that I might consider drinking less in front of my new BF, and that Jim Beam makes me a hot emotional mess, but a much better dancer.

P.S. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. Just sayin’. We could take another stab at Limerick Wednesday. I feel it could go viral any day now …