It is summer camp, Camp Rotary, on a paid-for one week leadership award
by the local Morning Optomist's Club.
He's found a girlfriend in the shuffle. �A cute blonde-girl,
thin
with a womanly body. �He's tall and thin, good looking but
still a
little spastic. �She's given him blue-balls twice this week
already.
They sit in a stairwell at camp, no one is around. �They're
discussing what happens next, after camp.
"I'll visit you," �he says.
"You WILL?" �the blonde replies, with genuine surpise.
"Of course," he says, and leans in to kiss her.
Sun shines though a window. �She is back-lit for a minute, and
the
sun illuminates her blonde hair in a way that is entrancing.
Its entrancing until he sees what is a centemeter and a half long blond
hair sticking out of her cheek. It is bent harshly two-thirds of the way through.�Along with that he noticies a
small girl-moustache which he had been in denial about until now.
Now there was no missing it. �It was undeniable. �She
was a hairy broad. �
Hesitating for a moment, he looked at her with her lips puckered and
eyes closed.
"What the Hell," �he thought, "Who's gonna' know?"
And he kissed her.
Who's gonna' know.
*��� *��� *
This one is called 'Never Party with Strippers'.
One night after playing spontaneously in a local dive bar, some
strippers invited us back to a party. �We went, of course,
being
up for anything.
MIstake. �
There's always this notion in the media et. al. in prevailing
pop-culture that partying with strippers is supposed to be some sort of
watershed moment in a young guys life.
This is not so.
Its sad and depressing in the extreme if you have any soul at all
within you.
Of course, it may really depend on the strippers. �People are
people, and I'm sure there are those that would be cool and interesting
to hang out with, instead of incredibly needy and obvious.
�I'm
sure there are strippers that aren't struggling with intense demons of
abuse, substance, victimization, and otherwise.
Have to say that I haven't really met too many. �I would
suspect
that those that dont have to struggle against such things don't
necessarily last all that long in 'the business'.
Then again, what do I know. �I do find it hard to believe that
there is a large contingent of well-adjusted strippers out there that
are fun to hang out with, and are just in it for the dick. �Or
the
money. �
I've met many strippers that said they were 'stripping to put
themselves through school'. �I've met one that actually did
it.
�And she was fucked up.
But I don't judge. �We're all fucked up in several ways, and
the
best thing you can do is to keep yourself from hurting others.
�Maybe accept yourself for who you are and be allright with
that,
fucked-up-ed-ness included.
Anyway, the strippers we partied with, one really liked me, but I
really didn't give her any sort of opening, as she was bat-shit crazy,
which is its own special type of crazy, and is like nature saying 'DO
NOT TOUCH'. �The kind of crazy you can see in the eyes, that's
confirmed with action. �Embarassing, loud action. �
She touched me several times, to my displeasure, the both flashed
naughty bits at us, and she licked my friends neck. �We didn't
get
out of there until about five-thirty in the morning.
When I got home I showered. �I showered reeeaaaal good, and
got myself clean. �
What's funny is my friend showered, too. �Head-to-toe.
Was it to wash the germs or the crazy off? �Not sure.
Anyway, she kept popping up in unlikely locals, now trying to get me to
play for her on her forthcoming album with the family-friendly HIT
known as, 'Smack My Pussy'. �One time she saw me drive by and
stop
at a streetlight. �She charged my car and smacked my driver's
side
window so hard I thought a bird had commited suicide. �A large
bird.
But no, just Crazy. �Screaming about something with a big
smile on her face.
I drove away.
Another time she was locked in a car and couldnt get out. �I
was
walking. �She could only crack the window and again scream
something at me. �
The last time I saw her I was playing a gig at a dive bar.
�She
came up at the end of the night and dropped her phone number in my
breast pocket.
I was talking to a cute bar-maid, trying to get some soda-pop out of
her for free, which was more difficult than it should have been, seeing
as I just played a four hour set.
"Do girls always come up to you and give you their phone numbers?"
�she asked.
What could I say? �Its one of those questions to which there
is no
right answer. �If I say yes, then I'm trouble. �If I
say no,
then I'm a geek or a liar. �And all I wanted was soda-pop.
"Sure," �I said. �I never got my fucking soda.
�Sometimes girls can....I mean, JESUS, I just wanted pop.
�
They take it personally when a guy doesnt act like a complete chimp and
pursue them...even if you BOTH know its not going anywhere regardless.
All I wanted was refreshment. �Instead I got some sort of
attitude. �Im sorry, but you're not as hot as you think.
�Either one of you. �The stripper or the bar-maid.
�I
know we live in a derpressing town of midwest fat-asses, but so what?
What kills me even more is when you refuse to pursue, and to save face,
the girl will say you're gay. �Gotta' love that shit.
No, I'm sorry, I'm just not attracted to you. �I
don't normally date leather skinned hard-hearted lizards. �Get
the
fuck over yourself and get me a goddam soda. �Just because you
have boobs and aren't morbidly obeese doesn't really mean a whole
fuck-of-a-lot to me.
I think the barmaid made murmurs of that, that 'he must be gay'.
�Thing is, I don't think I put out a gay vibe. �I may
put out
a sex vibe, but I've never been propositioned by old queers, while
several of my hetero-pals have. �
Plus I love fucking girls waaaay too much. �Its like crack or
something. �
HAHAHA. �Crack. �Yeah. �
Pun-not-intended, but appreciated none-the-less.
(none-the-less is one of those colloquialisms that just suck the power
out of any sentence. �What the fuck is it with that?
�Try it
yourself and see. �Throw it into your next verbal rant.
�People will tune you the fuck out as soon as you blurt that
one
out. �Trust me.)
Anyway, the crazy stripper came up even after that and kept saying,
"So, just give me a call, you've got my number."
"No I don't," �I said.
"Yes you do. �I just gave
it to you." �
"Oh, that," I said, playing it off, "I must have thrown that away when
I cleaned out my pockets."
And I had thrown it away. �Quite fucking deliberately.
�There
are just some people you don't want to let in your life. �She
was
�one of them.
"You threw it AWAY?"
�she said, incredulously, as if I had thrown away some
gift-of-the-gods.
"Yeah, sorry," �I said, and someone else demanded my attention.
I turned away and she melted off into the night.
Haven't seen her since.
Oh-fucking-well. �I was nicer to her than 99% of the people
she
ever met, I'm sure, in just listening to her ranting, crazy bullshit so
the three or four times I had prior to that moment.
Some people are black fucking holes. �It pays off to identify
them in the long run.
So here it is: �Never Party With Strippers. �My
brother
created the back track, but then I modified it, mixed it, and dj'd it
myself. �It has a nice rap-feel to it. �Click once to
activate the flash, another time to make it play.
