HAFBs: Well here it is folks the winner of our Valentine’s Day horror story competition. Author, who else, Chesty La Rue* tells us of a beer and Jaegermeister fuelled misadventure into a European strip club on Valentine’s Day.
Please raise your hand if you have ever spent Valentine’s Day at a strip club.
Did you raise it?
You did? Great asshole, way to screw up my story’s introduction.
To the rest of you that didn’t raise your hand, here’s a story of a crap-tastic Valentine’s Day.
Based on the daily boob action at Had A Few Beers, chances are you’re a man who raised your hand. But who doesn’t like a nice pair?
To those of you who already raised your hands, (dicks) if you’re a lady, like my friends Anika, Natalie and I, give yourself a high-five because you survived Valentine’s Day at a strip club.
This Valentine’s Day there was no chocolates, flowers, cards, hearts, Cupid’s white butt, dates, boyfriends or husbands. No “girl’s night.”
Not even an emotion-laced Ben and Jerry’s binge.
I lived in Europe at the time and strip clubs there are just part of the territory. They are so woven into the European Union that various governments foot the bill for the care, health and welfare of those who practice this profession.
No matter the location, I will always feel shady walking into a strip club. At least I have peace of mind knowing “Nadia” from Eastern Europe gets to see a certified medical doctor for those awkward moments.
But to the point, when you spend Valentine’s Day at bars and strip clubs with beer, Jaegermeister, five dear friends and Nadia from Eastern Block, shenanigans are bound to ensue.
Pub crawling was our activity of choice that night and by the time we ended up at our destination, the beer and Jaeger had control of our three male friends.
Our destination: A strip club named Psst.
It’s a two-pole, mirrored shoebox with glittery disco balls (giggity), cozy couches, three stripers, and a bartender/owner/body guard/Freddie Mercury look-alike with gold chains and chest hair like taco meat, type of establishment.
The combination of brass cleaner, booze, shame and regret permanently molded my male friends into the cozy couch where they quickly fell asleep only to sporadically wake up like zombies when they realized there were lace thongs and vaginas jiggling in front of their faces.
Vaginas really do rule the world, folks.
My lady friends and I parked at the bar. We laughed, clapped and shook our heads as our highly intelligent male friends repeated this act throughout the night.
For some reason at the end of the night, my thoughts are hazy here toward the end of the evening, (beer) we ladies brought out the hand sanitizer. I’m going to say a joke or dare (Jaeger) prompted these men to giddily get on stage and clean the brass stripper poles with the hand sanitizer.
How did they clean the pole you ask? (Put your hand down by the way, the participatory part of the blog is over. Dick!)
They cleaned the pole by using to the bottle to simulate ejaculation, naturally.
I don’t think it was a slap in the face to taco meat manager Freddie Mercury and Co. as much as it was a thoughtful consideration.
I’d like to think that small act of kindness is maybe the sixth love language.
It was like ripping a Band-Aid off to reduce the pain or leaving the room to fart.
Sure, we were all drunk but we had a level of care and consideration for one another. My lady friends and I stuck around for the show and got everyone home safely. The guys? They ultimately passed out 99.9% germfree.
HAFBs: Chesty La Rue* will receive some free Had A Few Beers Swag and a photo of my balls.
* Totally her real name.