my last visit to a tit joint
11.09.01 had started harmlessly for me. as usual, I drove into austin well into the evening, because some of my impatient friends never wanted to wait for me to get off work. as costumary I dropped my luggage off at wg's abode and begun my quest to find my motley crew in one of the myriad of austin drinking establishments. after I met up with my clan, and proceeded to catch up, I faintly remember spending a week's worth of groceries on tequila shots and cigars. after throughly hazing the googs, I found myself in search of alternative entertainment.
the party powers that be put us on a crash course with the other houligans individually known as: shields, tit arm, large mcbighuge, callahan, and the slippery q. after dumping ol' man sto and a quick pit stop by mrs. googs at concert kate's place, we all crammed into a 4runner like some hatian refuges. we worked some voodoonomics at the door and somehow got in 6 or 9 of us for the bargain price of 45 bucks.
slouched next to a tiny cocktail table, I somehow ended up bathed in the warm blemish-erasing red light of the show palace having a lengthy conversation with an aging dancer. she was walking around in a second hand harley davidson jacket, hoping that a sucker would agree to purchase a dance from her. I was at the point where I hadn't had enough pulls off the crown royal bottle to fall for her ploy. I think I told her to come back and see me when glam rock was back in style.
my whole plan was to be an innocent bystander and spend no money what so ever. at that point my eyes belonged to another, and I felt partially guilty of being in such a decadent place. were I not a cheap bastard with a burning desire to see as many breasts as possible before I die, I might have resisted the allure of the 'two for one special' that the house spinmeister belted over the mike. but the potent combination of testosterone and booze got the best of me.
I don't know why this human stew of blonde locks and silicone targeted me of all people. it could have been that I had the appearance of someone with money to burn or maybe a modicum of conversational skills, but after about sixty-nine seconds of discussion with me, it would be impossible to hang on to either of these beliefs. regardless, she perched next to me for a half hour.
at first, she tried diligently to sell me a lap dance, but eventually settled to just have a little chat about whatever flitted through her thought bubble. she told me about how she became a dancer, how she's moved from club to club, city to city over the years. and how she was only in this gig to pay her way through school, likely story. although I attempted to keep this discussion as one sided as possible, she eventually began asking questions. 'what do you do?'.
now, I could have said, with honesty, any of the following:
'I serve as a cog in corporate america'
'I abuse my office internet connection to compulsively check my e-mail in lieu of doing any real work while praying that money is 'automagically' deposited in my checking account every week'
Instead, I completely twisted the truth. 'I'm a professional ball player'. Immediately, after the sentence left my mouth, I winced.
At that point, I had tried to recycle some old bull. we had previously parlayed that into a free limo ride, and a couple of free dances from the gold club in nola. but it wasn't working here. I didn't feel bad because I lied to someone attempting to carry on a genuine conversation. truthfully, no conversation can be all that serious when one of the participants will eventually break up the convo to get on stage and show everyone her nipples.
thankfully, however, 'jillian' didn’t call my bluff. still, my fib left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and it’s probably the reason I haven’t set foot in a 'gentleman’s club'. actually, that's the partial truth. I immediately bought a lap dance for mrs. googs, and instructed 'jillian' to get really freaky with her. oh the shame.
pervent in h-town
