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Tales of Wanderlust Pt 4
2004-11-11 - 12:07 a.m.


before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

[ed. note:  So where was I, where was I, where was I...yes...I was in the Adam's Mark Hotel, downtown Denver, with Audrey, in my spacious 8th floor room.  And then I stopped writing. ]


 


Tales of Wanderlust


pt 4


The Bachelor Party


 


It is a strip club.  A large building, the Penthouse Club, modeled supposedly after Penthouse the magazine.  Dim lights and a very spacious, 4 tiered building, with vip rooms and special booth seating.  A long bar.  Physically attractive women with multitudes of issues written over their faces, their moves, their very being stamped with issues.  Mirrors, black fabric.  Black light.   A strip club.


The girls strutted about, and I had help organize all of this.  One hundred dollars to get my brother on stage in a dance with two girls.  I think I got pick pocketed.  I lost a lot of money and never got a dance.  


They called him up on stage with a preamble that made little sense, made him take off his shirt and put on a Penthouse club t-shirt while he flipped off the crowd.  The DJ mocked him, but he took it in stride, strangely.  And the two blonde voluptuous women I chose to dance for him started their work.


They rubbed him and rubbed on him.  All legal, no hands on his part.  He had to sit on his hands.  And the DJ asked him questions.  He answered, politely.  And seemed to have a good time.


Until the end.  They wanted him to dance for the girls, as is the custom with this sort of thing.  Usually the guy jiggles a little, everyone laughs, its a good time.  Part of the ritual.  Its a strip club.  No one cares, and as long as you arent too aggressive with your hands on the girls (and they complain), then everything is fine.  Keep the money and the drinks flowing in opposite directions, no one cares.  No one ever cares aside from that what happens at a strip club.  Its a strip club, one of the more meaningless places on the planet.  Banal.  Trite.  Overblown.  And hardly anyone really admits the go there, let alone speaks of what happens.


Anyway, so the girls sat on the chair and coaxed him. They demanded he wiggle his ass and then sit down.  So he did this awkward, white-man dance, and stuck his ass in one of the girl's faces.  I think he was trying to be sexy, as Im sure he was all revved up with hormones, but it ended up looking more like he was trying to fart in her face.  Which isnt polite.


And he lifted up his shirt.  My brother is pale pale pale.  Reddish complected and pale.  That sort of thing.  Bursts into flames at the beach.


"Damn, Chris,"  the DJ taunted, "Two words:  Tanning Booth.  You're almost translucent."


And with that, my brother snapped.  I mean, he lost his shit.  Everything went downhill.  It was hilarious, although at the time I did not laugh.  That was later, at the wedding.


"Translucent, hey?  FUCK YOU!"  he shouted, then took off the penthouse shirt, threw it at the DJ, and flipped him off.


He put on his shirt and started getting off the stage.  Everyone laughed at this point.


"Bring me up on stage just to MOCK me?!  FUCK YOU!  They want a show!  You want a SHOW?!  FUCK YOU!!" he raged, turning red, climbing down from the stage, ignoring the pleading of the strippers.  The DJ mumbled something unintelligent, and threw the t-shirt back at him.


The crowd was silent, as if someone had sprayed a fine mist of a shit-spray all over them, and no one wanted to talk about it.  I felt like I had egg on my face because of his behavior for a moment, because I paid and arranged for this.  I had forget the ritual mocking that was associated with this.  I should have known he wouldnt have taken it well, despite his seeming change to a more laid-back methodology to life.  Pride had reared its ugly head, and with his arrogance, there was no shutting it off now.


"FUCK YOU, YOU ASSHOLE!  Mock ME, WILL YOU?!  MOCK ME?!!!  FUCK YOU!", and he bent over, hiding behind the strippers in a way as he descended, tossing the t-shirt, again, at the DJ's head.


The DJ caught it in one smooth motion and called for a round of applause for chris.


"A SHOW, A SHOW, THEY WANTED A SHOW!"  he said as he approached my seat which coincidentally was by the stage. 


 I used to go to strip clubs, and often I would sit by the stage, in Perverts Row, where one can have a girl rub her fake tits on you for a dollar, until this just grossed me out.  And its not about the tits, nor the rubbing.  Its about the facial residue of all the other members of Pervert's Row.  All the facial grease and gook that will reside inbetween your strippers breasts as she makes her way, dollar by dollar, to your seat.  Its disgusting.  Its unhygenic, and a great way to catch virulent strains of acne.  I just cant deal with it.  And frankly, strip clubs bore the shit out of me anymore.  Once you realize every girl there has some creepy molestor uncle in her past, it really sucks the fantasy out of it.  Besides, NOTHING HAPPENS IN THE VIP ROOM.   NOTHING.


And I saw him approaching my seat.  And I thought, "Oh shit.  Everyone will know he is with me."  And it was like, I had nowhere to run to.  Nowhere to hide. Caught out in the open. 


He plopped down in the seat next to me.  He was PISSED.  And he looked like he was about to start swinging.  But on who?  The DJ?  A by-stander?  Me?


Standard practice called for him to take it out on me.  Even though I have beaten the living daylights out of him in the past, he still slips up and thinks he's thirteen and Im nine.  He's very juvenile often in his emotions.


And he demanded to know who was responsible.  He browbeat some people until I took the blame.


"You did this?"


"Yes."


He didnt want to believe me.


"You did this?"


"Yes."


"You did this?"


"Yes.  A few others chipped in, but it was my idea and my fault."


He paused and thought for a second.


"I appreciate the sentiment and thought that went into that, Arg, but it wasnt right.  IT WASN'T RIGHT."


I didnt say anything.  Frankly, I knew this would be funny later on, if only to me.  Besides, I just wanted him to chill out.  Why feed a roaring fire fuel?


Later on, we called a cab and waited while my brother argued belligerently with a Russian guy.  Chris didnt think he was Russian.  He didnt realize this guy was just supremely intoxicated.  The other Russian pulled out a gigantic wad of hundreds and a Russian passport as he slurred about finding a cab.


We went home, I caught a cab to the hotel, and slept in the other queen bed, leaving Audrey to sleep alone.


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