The NOLA Chronicles: Never Trust a Strip Club
There are few places in the world that can so carefully walk the line between “grimy disgusting shithole” and “mecca of rambunctiousness.” New Orleans, Louisiana does so with unparalleled grace. Because my own Florida Gators are heading to the Sugar Bowl this year (and I am lucky enough to be joining them) I’ve decided to recount some of my favorite hijinks in the Creole City of Sin over the next few days for your pleasure and enjoyment.
Today, I’ll be revisiting an unfortunate strip club experience, and I can tell you right now that the moral of the story is that nothing is free when it comes to trashy topless women.
It was only a year ago, when a large group of my friends and I decided to pursue our biannual expedition to the fabled Bourbon Street via recreational vehicle. This was not our first trip, but the fact that most of my group had recently passed the threshold into legal drinking territory was something worth celebrating. Sure, drinking in New Orleans is never too difficult underage, as any fake ID will suffice (even if the pictured person weighs 100 pounds more than you, and is 75% a different race), but the freedom from any possible repercussions was worth an extra dose of reckless abandon.
The night began just as any other in the fair Louisiana town, with alternating doses of champagne, hard liquor, and amphetamines clouding our better judgments, until a sense of fearless triumph gripped the group by the testicles. We stormed Bourbon with nothing but the clothes on our backs, an industrial size box of beads, and enough grain alcohol to scrape the barnacles off of a river ferry.
Within 15 minutes of our pilgrimage, two members of our group were nowhere to be found. We were far too drunk for any real concern to manifest, but we would later find that they were spending their night under the watchful eye of the New Orleans Police Department. While horseshit may line the gutters of Bourbon Street, apparently public urination is severely frowned upon. While my friends took themselves off the beaten path for what they hoped was a brief moment of relief, a particularly bitter officer of the law thought otherwise. The pair spent the rest of the night fearing for their lives with thieves and drug dealers in Community Cell Block 4A, while the hoodlums somehow smoked smuggled marijuana in their cells rolled in toilet paper. The two were quite shaken by the experience, but were right back with our group the next morning, shoveling the deadly concoctions of Pat O’Brien’s down their throats as they relived their unfortunate evening.
Back on night one, with our urinary pair nowhere to be found, we continued on in typical NOLA fashion, alternating between horrifically sweet Hand Grenades and unnecessarily large plastic cups of malt beverages. The rest of our waking hours were relatively uneventful (as uneventful as a night in New Orleans can be, anyway), but as the sunlight hours crept nearer, we found ourselves at a crossroads. A few members of our group were nestled with newfound female companions, others were succumbing to the vaginal call of sleepiness, but my roommate and I were far from admitting defeat.
“Want to go to the strip club?” I asked him with a devilish glimmer in my eye.
“You read my fucking mind,” he replied.
Suddenly we were off to Larry Flint’s Barely Legal club for some relatively mellow pre-sleep sustenance. Little did we know the consequences that would soon arise.
Unlike many of the topless establishments of the French Quarter, Barely Legal asked for no cover charge, which was a huge plus in our book considering we had no idea the quality of the naked females within. We were not disappointed. While Louisiana strip joints are not fully nude, their offering of a fully-stocked bar was new to me, as the state of Florida forbids alcohol from being served at such establishments.
We were obnoxiously drunk, and unwilling to pay to give ourselves a hearty case of blue balls, so we simply sat near the back row of the club, sipping our beers and observing with an approving gaze. It wasn’t long before a pair of double d toting “pre-med students” found their way to our laps, and while we enjoyed their company we were still reluctant to forfeit cash in support of what I can only assume was a devastating cocaine habit. Until one of them offered a suggestion…
“Do you guys want to take a tour?”
We had no clue what she was suggesting, but our easily persuaded minds were heading up the VIP stairs before you could say “T-Pain.” Next thing we knew, we were seated comfortably in a mirror-lined room sporting flat screens in every corner. A pale and nervous male club employee poked his head in the door as we were meticulously examining every supple curve on our strippers’ glittery bodies.
“You guys want some Jameson our something?” he asked with a mischievous grin on his face.
“Come on guys, let’s party!!!” the curvaceous brunette added.
At this point in the night, I was overcome by the general badassery of the situation. I didn’t know where the evening would lead, but I was more than willing to shell out a few hundred to continue the sinful road our visit had taken. I handed him my credit card with nothing more than an order to “Make it happen.”
A few minutes of lap dancing and drinking passed, and suddenly I felt a slight vibration in my pocket. Thinking that some freaky shit was next on the menu, I eagerly reached down, only to find an unknown number calling my cellphone. I answered in a drunken shuffle as the latex smelling thighs wrapped around my waist.
“Hello sir, this is Wells Fargo, I’m calling to inquire about a recent charge on your card,” here it comes, I thought, “Did you just validate a $5,000 charge on your account?”
I was shocked. No matter what the strippers planned to do with us from that moment on, there is no way in hell it would have been worth five grand. If they cooperatively gave me a seven-hour blowjob I still wouldn’t say it could possibly be worth five G’s. An orgasm is an orgasm, and if I really wanted to pay for sex it wouldn’t be hard to find an acceptable hooker with a significantly lower price tag in the French Quarter.
I immediately cancelled my card (which would bite me in the ass for the rest of the weekend), and my friend and I angrily stormed outward, bitching about deceitful business practices the entire way out. My memory is a little blurry on if we walked or were thrown out, but needless to say we were more than frustrated. After our departure, we quelled our fury over a Big Ass Beer, and laughed over the general ridiculousness of the situation. We learned a valuable lesson that night, and on our upcoming visit we surely won’t be taking any $5,000 tours of any strip clubs.