Exhausted. Broke. Serotonin depleted. Probably in need of an STD test. All I wanna do is curl up in the fetal position in the corner of the garage with the car running.
Let me back up and start from the beginning.
It all started on Friday afternoon when I got a call from an out-of-town buddy telling me that he was having an end-of-summer bash that Saturday, and it would be worth my while to make the four hour drive to attend. I had nothing on the books for the weekend, and hadn’t seen most of the people that would be at this party since college, so I decided to go.
I got up early Saturday morning, made the drive across state, and arrived just as the party was starting. The get-together was pretty standard – tons of dudes telling dirty jokes and getting pants-shitting drunk, while the few girls that were in attendance stood around pretending to be amused. I blacked out at some point late in the afternoon and didn’t come around until a little after midnight. At this point, I found myself locked in a bathroom with a complete stranger, blasting rails off the back of a toilet seat. I’m not exactly sure what this dude gave me, but I’m fairly certain it was cut with shards of broken glass, because my nose was in dire need of a super-absorbent tampon.
At some point, I left the bathroom and began wandering aimlessly throughout the house. That’s when I ran into a girl that I used to bump uglies with back in college. She was never more than a 3 or a 4, and the intervening years had not been kind to her. But she still had a nice set of lung protectors, and in my state I probably would’ve sunk my unit into a rotting corpse.
We sat on the couch talking for quite awhile – about what, I have absolutely no clue, but I’m sure I sounded like a Pat O’Brien voicemail – before we ended up back in my buddy’s room. I wish I could tell you that I gave her the colon-wrecking that she deserved, but unfortunately I was dead below the waist. All the Caverject in the world wouldn’t have lifted my crane, and thinking back, I probably should’ve just called it quits. For some reason, I thought if I dropped down and gave her an aggressive tongue-lashing she might be motivated to return the favor by knuckling my prostate. No such luck. She was suffering from a crippling case of liquor clit, so she just laid there like a dead fish. It was fitting, considering she smelled like the dumpster outside of a Red Lobster.
It was now 5:30am and I had a decision to make. Was I going to try and get some sleep and drive home later, or was I going to power-through and try and make it home before the gas wore off? Considering the only way I was getting to sleep anytime in the near future was if I was hooked up to a Rohypnol drip, my decision was pretty easy.
Other than the enamel from my teeth, I hadn’t eaten in about 18 hours, so my first stop was at McDonald’s. I don’t know if it was the nutrients from the Egg McMuffins or the subtle highway vibrations, but about 30 minutes into the ride home, the strangest thing happened — I started to plump up.
My rod was harder than Final Jeopardy and it was demanding some attention, so I pulled up a few sordid images on my iPhone. Luckily, it dawned on me that this was a recipe for disaster. I was still completely fueled out of my mind, operating heavy machinery at a dangerously high speed, aggressively rubbing my helmet, and thumbing through scenes on spermhumiliation.com.
As luck would have it, a few minutes later I noticed a billboard for an adult video arcade that was about 10 miles away. I figured this would be the perfect place to get rid of all of the distractions and sober up before finishing the second half of my journey home. Plus, it’d be a lot easier to just dump a load in a buddy booth than inside my new car.
I was worried about using my credit card at a place like this, so I pulled into a country diner to use their ATM. The restaurant was full of wholesome families enjoying a nice Sunday breakfast. I felt like an absolute ghoul when I walked in with a pounding erection tucked into my waistline. I pulled out a hundo from the ATM, got back in my car, and drove as fast as I could back across the street to where I really belonged — Jizzneyland.
When I opened the front door, I was pleasantly surprised. I was faced with two options. To the left was a glass door that revealed a large room with walls full of DVDs and other garden variety adult novelties like chindos, clitoral pumps, and pulsating anal probes. To the right, much to my surprise, there was a glass door with a sign that read “Live Girls – Ring Bell for Service.”
I slammed my sweaty palm onto the doorbell. Within two seconds, one of the seediest looking dudes I have ever seen opened the door. The guy was in his mid fifties, dressed in all black, and looked as if he was suffering from a debilitating cough syrup addiction. He had long thinning hair, heavy pockmarks, and a real oily exterior. There is still absolutely no doubt in my mind that this guy has a couple of gimps chained up in his basement at home.
His beady eyes peered over his gold aviator sunglasses as he held the door open and invited me into his lair. He instructed me to head around the corner, take a seat, and said he would “get everything set up.” I didn’t know what he meant by “get everything set up” until I turned the corner and realized that I was in a room that resembled the inside of a VFW. There were rows of plastic fold-up chairs, a makeshift bar in the corner, and a stage that sat about 9 inches higher than ground level. To make matters worse, the room was extremely well-lit and completely empty. There was no ability to blend into the crowd to mask my true creepiness.
I don’t know why I expected anything different, but for some reason it never dawned on me that a strip club would be completely empty at 7:30 on a Sunday morning.
I took a seat near the front of the stage while the door guy scurried about the room setting up the bar and DJ booth. He informed me that “Shadow” – not sure if that is the name her parents gave her or not – was getting ready in the back and would be out in a few minutes. This should have been the extent of our conversation but he kept trying to make small talk, which made me want to gouge his tongue out with a hammer claw. I kept giving him one word answers and doing my best to avoid eye contact. He was relentless, firing questions at me until the music cranked up and cut him off. I had never been so elated to hear a Nickelback song in all my life.
A few moments later, some floor-rattling behemoth walked out from behind the curtains and started twirling around the pole. She was a high mileage unit who had a very distinct look to her. She looked like she had been cooking heroin in the back before she got on stage, but at the same time, she was also quite voluptuous. That is not a combo you see very often. Most junkies are extremely emaciated and waif-like, but not this one. She had huge mammaries and a very bulbous stomach. Actually, come to think of it, she was probably just pregnant.
Now, when it comes to exotic dancers, I usually prefer my ladies on the B-Team. The really hot ones are usually too busy bilking some poor sap out of his life savings to give you the attention you deserve. I usually bypass the 10 and spend my hard-earned dollars on the toothless old gash with tweaker scabs and needle marks between her toes. She needs the money, and therefore, is much more likely to do something unethical. Yes, she may spend half the time we have together hacking up loose phlegm, smoking GPC non-filters out of the hole in her trachea, and bitching about her grandson who never calls. But, and this is important, she is also more likely to give you a rod massage and she’ll probably only expect a couple of boxes of Sudafed in return.
Long story short, I had no problem with the pear-shaped disaster that was twirling around the pole in front of me.
I began to build a pyramid on stage with a bunch (3) of singles. She responded by opening her legs, sliding her thong to the side, and revealing her internal organs to me – she had a fantastic pancreas, by the way. I immediately asked for a lapper and she motioned to the back of the room. She then led me back to a futon that looked like it was salvaged from the Superdome after Hurricane Katrina.
She told me it was $20 for one song and $40 for three, so I opted for the extended version. She informed me that the dances were hands-on, and that my creepy-little hands were free to roam wherever they pleased, just as long as I didn’t touch her babymaker. Fair enough. I agreed to behave and she turned around and stuck her enormous dumper right on my crotch and started earning her money. At this point, the only thing between me and her uterus was my ketchup-stained sweatpants and her Chlamydia-dusted thong, so I knew I wasn’t going to last long. I reached around her rotund midsection, grabbed on as tight as I could, dug my chin into her gargantuan back, and began going to town until I dropped a sperm bomb about halfway through the first song.
Within two nanoseconds, I shoved the hippopotamus off of me, tossed her a few crumbled-up 20s, and stiff-legged it out there. Nothing will change your mood faster than releasing the doves. It’s crazy. One minute you’re delirious to the point where you’d clean out your kid’s college fund to bareback an HIV-infected hemophiliac, and the next minute you’re absolutely repulsed by anything with a vulva.
The normal pre-vs-post-discharge state of mind is bad enough, but when you find yourself alone in a roadside strip club at 8:15 on a Sunday morning with a belly-button full of seed, all you want to do is fellate a shotgun.