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I returned home from a late afternoon class and opened the door to my room. The smell of smoke and cheap perfume smacked me in the nose. Two busty women in lingerie sat on the bed smoking cigarettes, while my fraternity brother, Knoxville, stood in the corner talking to a large man in a leather jacket. Clothes and makeup were scattered across the floor. A thong was draped over the television. Knoxville looked over at me.
“We used my room as the changing station last semester,” he said.
The blonde woman ashed her cigarette on the floor.
“Y’all don’t got an ashtray,” she said in a southern drawl, clicking the soot-covered gum in her mouth.
I handed her an empty Solo cup and introduced myself. The blonde’s name was Mandi. The brunette sitting next to her powdering her nose in a hand mirror was Esther, which was the last name I expected a stripper to have.
“So, do you guys do like a private show for extra money?” Knoxville asked Mandi.
She tilted her head.
“Like, if I give you 50 bucks, what can I get?”
She looked at me as though I was eavesdropping on a private conversation, so I dropped my backpack next to a large zebra print handbag and made my way downstairs, where the rest of the fraternity was drinking Busch Light and playing pong. Dots of color flickered across the walls in the living room, where couches and folding chairs were arranged in a circle.
Stripper night was always a special night for the fraternity. Held towards the end of rush week, it not only showed the rushees a hell of a time before they selected which house to join, but it was also a hilarious opportunity for the initiated brothers to see how the prospects reacted. The brand new freshmen, many of whom had yet to experience the bonding power of watching silicon tits bounce up and down with their boys, always acted shocked, awkward, and in some cases, downright bizarre.
“The rushees are here!”
As drivers began to arrive, the rushees trickled through the front door, where they were greeted with a plastic handle of shitty vodka and ordered to drink. It was important to be properly hammered before any stripper event. Otherwise, the experience could feel voyeuristic, or even sad if a C-section scar was noticed.
Once the fresh faces of the young college students were flushed in a drunken red, they were led into the living room and handed a stack of singles. They weren’t told about the night’s festivities beforehand, but after watching them flip through their bills with a smirk in the glow of the living room décor, it became clear the group had figured out what was about to happen. Everybody took a seat in the circle, while the large man in a leather jacket stood in the middle.
“Gentlemen, who’s ready to see some girls?” he said.
The circle erupted.
“Alright, alright. Remember, no photography of any kind, and no inappropriate touching.”
“Now, please welcome our two lovely ladies for the evening … Mandi and Esther!”
The ladies strutted into the living room while “Wild for the Night” blasted from the speakers. They playfully touched a few faces as they worked their way around the circle. Mandi grabbed a nervous-looking rushee in a Young Life t-shirt by the hands, escorted him to the middle, put him on the floor, and straddled his face.
Esther hopped on the lap of another rushee and thrashed her hair in a violent windmill motion. He grabbed her ass. The curious freshman worked his hands to her fake tits, and she smacked him across the face. He had been warned.
At this point, one rushee, overcome by the effects of the cheap vodka, sat half-conscious with his head hung limp. Mandi straddled him, propped his face in the middle of her chest, and shook her heavy boobs, causing his head to bang up and down like he was at a metal show.
A standard stripper fare continued for about 30 minutes before the man in a leather jacket called for an intermission. I saw our treasurer approach the large man, hand him a wad of cash, and mutter something about “the works.”
When the short break was over and the music started back up, Mandi brought the Zebra print handbag with her to the circle.
It was time for the finale. Mandi reached inside the Zebra print bag, pulled out a tarp, and spread it on the floor. The two strippers played a quick game of rock, paper, scissors. Esther lost. She crawled on all fours to the middle of the tarp. Then, Mandi reached inside the bag and pulled out a big, blue strap-on dildo.
I didn’t see this coming. The reactions of the rushees were mixed. Some scooted to the fronts of their seats. Some stared dumbfounded, mouths agape. Some laughed. Some high-fived the guys next to them. Some hopped out of their seats and tossed their remaining singles. The kid in a Young Life shirt crossed his heart.
The two started going at it, and a scrawny rushee reached out and grabbed the hand of the stripper being railed from behind as if to say, “Hold on, okay? We can make it through this.”
When the lesbian lovemaking concluded, Esther removed the blue dildo from its girdle, approached the rushee who touched her boobs earlier, and thwapped him in the face. We cheered.
Later in the night, we hung out in the house drinking with the rushees. We ran out of alcohol, but I remembered that I had a few extra beers hidden in my room. I went upstairs and opened the bedroom door to find Knoxville with his back to me, pants around his ankles, a hand with red fingernails clutching his bare ass cheek.
I did what any man who has just walked in on his brother receiving a 50-dollar head bobber from a stripper would, and backed out of the room, slowly closing the door behind me.
You still owe me for that rug, Knoxville, you son of a bitch..