By Grubby © 2005
I had $100 left. McGrupp said, "Well, we have two options. We can storm the Castle or... go to a strip club."
I said, "We could just as easily lose in poker." I checked my wallet. "Which would you rather do, lose $100 in poker or lose $100 at a strip club?"
When strip clubs are mentioned, there really aren't any other options.
Crazy Horse Too was the destination. My $100 went a little further than McGrupp's because many strip clubs are free to anyone who has a Nevada driver's license (a tip if you're visiting Vegas: get a fake Nevada license, it'll pay for itself just in free admission).
First order of business was finding seats and getting drinks.
We headed to Cleopatra's Lounge, a darkened area near a bar with more empty seats than the main area. On the way over, a stripper grabbed my crotch and asked how I was doing. I think she knew.
I had my eye on a Natalie Portman look-a-like who sat in front of us, but she was one of the customers. She was lip-locking the guy she came with, and McGrupp said her guy later bought her a couple lapdances. I missed that completely, and McGrupp said I was busy.
Besides Natalie, it was a full hour before I found anyone I was interested in.
I'm selective with my strippers. Particularly with $100.
McGrupp, however, sampled everyone who approached him (including a pair with matching tan lines that McGrupp said, "Best $80 I spent in my life"). After one finished, he said, "You are a true artist. But you knew that."
His name was Steve that night, mine was Dave. My occupation was going to be a professional log roller from Milwaukee, but none of the strippers had asked.
One introduced herself as Soria. "Like the disease?" I said, repeating myself like a hack strip club regular that needs new material (I don't have McGrupp's strip club patter down). I turned Soria down after envisioning some crusty substance growing on my toes. When picking a stripper name, it shouldn't recall anything in a medical textbook next to an illustrated picture.
Then I saw a vision in a red evening gown. Like in real life, the girls you're attracted to tend to walk right past you. As she passed by, I all but Christian Slatered her to get her to come over.
She had a girl-next-door/Avril Lavigne look that must be my type. And combined with a personality (okay, any personality), she was easily my favorite. She said she was from Kansas City, lived in San Diego, and her name was May. "May I have this dance?" I said, and after hanging out for a song, she got right into it at the start of the next.
The red dress didn't do her justice. "Does the dress come off?" (told ya -- no patter), and out of the dress, May was very becoming. A large tattoo was splashed on her stomach and an unnerving one on her back had two eyes that looked like they were watching me. Like the Mona Lisa. A cartoon cat was stitched on her panties: "It's my pussy."
She had a unique talent that I hadn't experienced before, where I could swear she had some sort of silent vibrator in her mouth. And she put it to good use. I had another dance to confirm.
Half an hour later, I was telling McGrupp about her stupid human trick, and her ears must have been burning, because she showed right up. I had to let McGrupp test out her talent, and after the first dance, McGrupp also had seconds. He told her that we knew each other from med school and that I was a well-known surgeon. Sure beats log rolling.
This was the first time I'd been to a strip club wearing shorts. I highly recommend that as your choice of attire.
After we ran out of money, we exchanged stripper perfume and body bling for mozzarella sticks and steak & eggs at Wild Wild West, which is where my final few ATM dollars went.
Playing poker or strip clubs. Not a hard decision at all.
Grubby is a writer and gambler living in Las Vegas, NV.