Last night I went out with some friends in St. Louis. I had assumed we were going to have a casual Thursday night. We all have a fraternity wedding to attend this weekend so I thought everyone was going to take it easy and just drink beers, take shots, get drunk, and turn in. Not so much. If this column were a screenplay this would be the point where it would read “CUT TO: East St. Louis, 5:00am.” After the cut you’d see me and my friends stumbling out of the Penthouse Club, blackout drunk, and smelling of glitter and desperation.
The night at the strip club wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. There were tits, there was ass, a little bit of box, and a lot of forlorn, vacant eyes. Pretty standard, really. Still, I hadn’t been to a strip club in a while, and couldn’t help but notice a few things.
The Awkward, 30-Something White Guy Alone in the Corner is Either Going to Masturbate in Public or Shoot Up the Place
I swear to God these are the ONLY two options for this poor, lonely soul. He’s the only person at the club sadder than the strippers. Just pray to God he had a good day working his toll booth, because I’d much rather him fire some knuckle children into the carpet than a 9mm into the crowd. With this guy you just have to pray that he doesn’t listen to the voices in his head telling him that all the people in the club are sinners who must be punished and hope that instead he listens to the DJ telling him to have a good time and put his hands together for FUH-FUH-FANTASIAAAAAA.
Last night’s incarnation of the potentially deadly, fully erect introvert was particularly disturbing to me. He was sitting alone at the far corner of the main stage and no one was within five seats of him in either direction, which meant he had more than enough privacy for loading something…or unloading something (jizz, I’m talking about jizz). He was also wearing a Rams hoodie, which for some reason I take as a bad sign, and his hands were resting in his lap. What are you doing with your hands buddy? Huh? HUH!?! I’m trying to concentrate on these cartoonish fake tits but James Holmes over here is making a weird face and I can’t tell if it’s his vinegar strokes or murderous rage. Either way, it’s distracting and it creeps me out.
The Strippers Who Don’t Have Fake Tits Have Got to Feel Really Inadequate
Guys like breasts of all sizes, and I’m sure the owner of the club probably tells any insecure, meagerly endowed pole jockeys as much, but that doesn’t mean there still aren’t feelings of inadequacy. Now, to be fair, the girls with big naturals don’t give a shit about the girls with fake tits. They win. God gave those girls a gift and they’re showing their gratitude by rubbing them in the face of every pathetically horny trucker and frat blogger they meet.
My favorite stripper interaction of the night was with a girl who we’ll call Kryztal (pronounced Krizzzzz-TAHL), because fuck it, all the names are interchangeable anyway. Kryztal was clearly sporting a fake rack, and good for her for saving up enough money to correct God’s shoddy craftsmanship. While Kryztal was writhing around on the main stage she noticed me, probably because I’m super handsome and cool unlike all the other LOSERS at the club. She put me between her legs, looked at me, and said, “You look like you need an Eskimo kiss with my nipple.” I politely accepted her offer, telling her that, “Yeah I pretty much always need that.” Then, for the price of a McDouble, she rubbed her nipple on my nose. Good times.
This offer was accepted specifically because Kryztal had a rockin’ set. A stage over some poor girl who looked like she was kidnapped from the Belarusian gymnastics squad was sporting a frown and a pair of fried eggs. Were SHE to have made the same offer I probably would have…still accepted, I was pretty hammered, but I would not have enjoyed it. In real life I appreciate breasts of all sizes. It’s not really a major concern to me. I’m more of a legs and ass guy anyway. But in stripper it’s “the bigger the better.” If I wanted realism I’d spend all night trying to convince them to dance on me, only to end up getting too drunk to know what was going on, regardless of if I closed or not…still counts.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the flat stripper doesn’t even have the confidence to make the nipple Eskimo kiss offer in the first place. Meanwhile, her formerly flat cohorts are now the main attraction on center stage, rubbing their nips on anyone physically capable of throwing a handful of crumpled up singles, while she’s still catering to the guys who don’t even have enough confidence to watch the hottest girls in the room. That’s got to sting.
How is East St. Louis Not the Dead Stripper Capital of the World?
No seriously, the place is known for two things: strippers and murder. I feel like there should be some more synergy there. How East St. Louis isn’t the dead stripper capital of the world is beyond me. This is the part of town so godforsaken that it once got the St. Louis metro area compared to MOGADISHU, SOMALIA in a list of the world’s most dangerous cities. That’s right, the hobos and gang members of East St. Louis are apparently every bit as dangerous as pirates and terrorists. Give them some RPGs and every news station’s traffic chopper is going to be taken down. So suck on that JParks! Detroit ain’t got NOTHIN’ on St. Louis! America’s Mogadishu, what up!?!
How Does Someone Get a Job At a Strip Club?
I’m not talking about the strippers. I know how they came to work there. Their dreams died and they wanted to throw a decadent, never ending funeral for them. I’m talking about the other staff. The bartenders, the bar backs, the bathroom attendants, etc. At what point does strip club become an option? Don’t get me wrong, there isn’t exactly a lot of work in Southern Illinois, because it’s a wasteland. I guess at the end of the day if I had to have a shitty job I’d at least want a shitty job where I could look at tits all day. As a TotalFratMove writer, I can relate.