For my night out, I decided to wear a pair of semi-sheer black pants, a v-neck tank and a sheer top over it. The tank resembled a corset with underwiring at the bust. Needless to say, I had cleavage up to my neck almost. I topped off the outfit with a pair of sensible heels. The kind a tipsy woman can walk in at the end of the night. The girls arrived just as I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup. I hadn’t seen a couple of them in a few months and they were surprised at how long my hair had grown—the short summer doo is over. Dena commented that I looked like a mourner, dressed in black. Hey, I made sure to break it up a bit with a nice deep rose shade of lipstick.
When I got in the car, I saw a small cooler in the back seat. Cricket, Dena’s main partner-in-crime handed me a Zima. She said, “I heard you loved them.” I did…in the 90’s. I opened one and said, “Bring on the baby oil and tenderloins (what I call younger men), the Birthday Girl is ready.”
On the way, I suggested we do the Fayetteville ghost walk instead. The way they looked at me was priceless. The silence was so thick you could hear what they were thinking. Luckily, they called my bluff and let the thongs win. We ended up at C’s just as they were opening the doors. I was shocked to see that we were the first to arrive. I didn’t want the table that was right at the end of the catwalk, where the strippers usually ended their dance. That meant, each one would come over to us first for tipping. I preferred a side table, where we could still see the show, but not be in the line of fire. I made the girls vow not to tell them it was my birthday.
I decided to stick with Zima and requested a twist of lime, each time I ordered one. Since I was reliving the old Zima drinking days, Insisted the hens call me Zherrie. Before the show started, Dena pointed out that there were a lot of empty seats. Oh no, a small audience. Oh those poor stripper guys….they were in for a night.
I’m a big people watcher person. I take notice of many details that many fail to notice. Dena loves to hear my observations. She saw me glancing around and said, “Talk to me.” So I began my assessment of the audience, waiting for dancing thongs to appear. We were at the table at the end of the catwalk. On the right of us was a table of black ladies who were doing some serious talking on their cell phones. One had a stack of dollars on the table. She kept rubbing her hands together. I guessed that the other women didn’t really want to be there. On the left of us was a table of bouncy college-aged girls. No money on the table. They were downing in $2 Strawberry daiquiri specials. They were there to get drunk and pick up guys after the show. In fact, there were a lot more women at the bar and on the upper deck than there were at the tables around the stage. My guess was that it would be a poor night for the strippers unless the show was electrifying.
The first guy out on stage looked very young. I was afraid we would get arrested for looking, much less sticking a buck down his thong. He seemed unsure of himself, probably one of his first dances in front of an audience. He spent too much time dancing with most of his clothes on. He was still trying to get a leg out of his pants (guess he hadn’t heard about those rip-away pants), when his song was over. He came directly to our table. I tipped him a dollar out of pity.
The second guy was better, though very GQ, but not exactly my taste. I like the bald tattooed guys with pecks and sweat. This guy stripped more quickly…right down to a red thong . I’ll say this…if I can find out which one of the hens ratted me out to the strippers; I'll get my revenge in a slow methodically cold way. The second guy said, 'I hear there's a birthday babe out there. Hmmm….mm..mmm… c'mere 'Zherrie'... I’ve got a present for you.' The hens went wild. He had me sit in a chair and gave me a lap dance... I wanted to tell him that a stuffed thong is hard to squash between my cleavage. The audience was going wild and I was trying not to laugh. Every time he came around to our table after his dance, I would have him bend over to expose his ass and give him a sweet love tap, before sliding a tip down his thong. (I wanted to tell him to take out some of the tissue paper he had stuffed in there.) After the tipping, he would kiss my cheek and say “thank you, Madame.” Oh boy…the things I could have done to him. But I was good…even if my thoughts were decadent. He really needed punishment for stuffing his thong. Bad ..bad…Boy.
The night proceeded to get wilder after that. The last 3 dancers were more professional and athletic. We had a grand ole time. I would say more but… the vow of silence cautions me. I was actually the tame girl of the evening. The other girls acted like they hadn’t seen any nearly naked guys in weeks. Hmmm, maybe they haven’t.
On the drive back, they kept talking about what they were going to do to their men when they got home. Personally, I was ready to sleep. Male strip shows are fun during the heat of the moment, but when your mind is on someone else…it’s hard to take the male exotic dancer fantasy home with you.