Vinyard Turns 30; Legend Continues - November 14, 2004
Last Thursday night at midnight, Vinyard turned thirty. He chose Heavenly Bodies, the strip club for struggling single mothers, as the place to get an early celebration going. He wanted to be the creepy guy that sits at the rail with a pile of ones. As I had already been forcibly escorted from the premises for molesting women I wasn't enthused. But I love Vinyard. I had to go.
Tucker and I went to his apartment to pick him up and also watch the rest of some basketball game. This is when I discovered Wally Szczerbiak, a member of the Minnesota Timberwolves. I immediately went to a computer and typed a "shirtless pic" internet search with his name in it. You can imagine my excitement when Vinyard told me that Wally is the NBA player that is good friends with my roommate, a man that sleeps a few sheets of crappy drywall away from me. Unfortunately he is happily married. I am busy concocting a list of the top ten reasons Wally and that bitch should have a threesome with me.
The game ended. We packed the car with a few beers because we were sure to get lost. Tucker was driving. Is Heavenly Bodies in the Bermuda Triangle of Chicago? After calling 411 and several people in California (I don't know why) we managed to get proper directions and arrived at Heavenly Bodies.
We ordered three beers from a waitress that looked not unlike Mrs. Poole from "Valerie's Family." She brought back Buds and a pile of ones. Vinyard and I situated ourselves at the rail with the pile and proceeded to fantasize about the dirty things we would do to each girl. Tucker hung back trying to pick up a stripper. Silly Tucker.
I got a lapdance from object of Tucker's affection. She wasn't all that attractive but had a sick pair of legs and an awesome personality. She was slapping her tits into my face saying "Girrrrrl, I gotta do something about this weave. It's dead busted." Not really what I wanted to discuss at the time, but funny nonetheless.
We came back from the VIP room, and this is when Tucker began to say things to her like, "I'm famous. I can't believe you don't know who I am." She would nod and talk about how she hadn't made much money that week. How she had bills to pay. Vinyard was balling up ones and throwing them with much appreciation at this fantastic black girl on stage. She was hanging upside down shaking her ass with her legs in the air, all while simultaneously sliding down the pole. She slammed into a split like Prince and the crowd erupted.
Tucker: "I can't believe you don't know who I am. I have a TV show."
A stripper approached Vinyard and asked if he wanted a dance. He turned her down as politely as is possible (for him) saying, "A naked woman on my lap will fuck me or she won't get on my god damn lap."
We watched more strippers, and this is when I got far too drunk and professed my love for rough sex. Vinyard raised a toast. We clanked bottles, and when I got up to pee, he laid the hardest slap on my ass that anyone ever has. I had a hand print there the next morning. I think his version of rough sex might be a little rougher than mine. Makes sense.
In the bathroom, the girls were bruised and speaking Russian. I didn't know whether the bruises on their arms were from the pole or from needles. I didn't ask. I hate to see these girls in the fluorescent lighting, it makes my soul weep. I can only take comfort in the fact that they don't have to dance in Eastern Europe, and that they can get "thee dreenk of thee oranges" from McDonalds any time they please.
A succession of unfortunate looking women took to the stage. Vinyard and I pretended to be deep in conversation until a two hundred pound woman with a face like a bulldog began massaging her foopa into the pole. She wasn't so much wearing her negligee. It encased her. Vinyard grabbed his ones, put them into his pockets so hastily the remnants flew onto the stage and floor around him and screamed "MY MONEY! MY MONEY!"
Tucker was coming back from a string of lap dances with the funny girl. He heard Vinyard's outburst and decided to laugh into the sausage girl's middle, which was quite mean. He then celebrated by buying nine beers for the three of us. He rubbed on the funny stripper some more and asked once again, "Are you sure you don't know who I am?" She turned to me and replied in a whisper, "Doogie Howser? Shit I don't know. I have to go dance now." She told me she was going to do some "West Side Perculator." She made me laugh.
Sausage girl left the stage. A girl with short black hair took to it. She was goth, with black leather boots and dominatrix accouterments. She was whipping her ass around to ACDC, fucking the pole at a mad pace while Vinyard and I screamed in appreciation. By the end of her first number, her face was covered in red lipstick from sucking on my neck while I shoved ones down her leather bodice. I can't remember a time I was more enamored with Eastern Europe. I wanted to buy her orange drink really badly. Shit I wanted to buy her one of those birthday tubs of orange drink. I would have bought her all the corn syrup in America if she had just kept dancing.
Tucker sent a blonde over to Vinyard to try and convince him to get a lap dance. She used everything in her arsenal to persuade him, but he wouldn't budge. At one point he was so annoyed he began spewing, "Stripper no talk. Stripper stop talking. Stripper shut up. Stripper no talk..."
Tucker joined the two of them and tried to cajole him. "Jesus Christ. Fine. Let's go." He got up, violently grabbed two beers by their necks and started toward the VIP area. The stripper said, "No no honey. You can't take your beers. Only one drink." Vinyard thought he couldn't take any beer with him, and this incensed him. His eyes got wide like the time the van full of Mexicans called him a pussy. I thought he might punch the stripper. He sat back down and clutched his beers to his chest. Tucker laughed and said, "Vinyard stop! You can't take BOTH beers. Only one. Go take one beer and get your dance." After a few minutes of explaining this to him, he agreed to go with the stripper. Before he left he said, "If these other beers aren't here when I get back, something will die." I believe he was serious.
Tucker and I sat and waited. We watched a girl climb twenty feet in the air with her PVC boots and then slide back down on her pussy. His dancer, the funny girl, had disappeared. He turned to me and explained, "She gets game thrown at her all day long. I just have to keep coming back to see her and prove to her that I'm interested." It was the stupidest thing I have ever heard Tucker Max say. Pussy really is that powerful, isn't it?
I sat, drank some more, and considered buying a pair of PVC boots. I have this new fantasy going that stars Gigi as "Kelly" from "Breakin," complete with suntan shimmer tights and belted leotard. PVC boots might be a nice addition.
Vinyard came back from his dance. He grabbed for his two beers while the stripper was trying to cordially hug him goodbye. He couldn't have cared less. It looked like he had a blow up doll hanging from his neck.
The lights came on. We got up to leave and Vinyard waved to his dancer and yelled "Nice tits! Take care." It was an effortless delivery. Sincere as well. If you ever get a chance to go out with this guy, it is well worth it. You will laugh until Bud Light spews from your nostrils.
I went to the strip club the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that. By Sunday I was tired of tits. I didn't think it was possible.
On Monday I got this Email:
"Did I see you at VIP's on Saturday night? You were getting lap dances and you had to sit on your hands so you wouldn't touch the stripper. Then the bouncer had to come and tell you to stop making out with the hot blond girl at your table. Please don't get banned from every strip club in town cuz you're hot and I want to take you to one."
He'll probably take me to a strip club, decide I am cool, and then date me. I'll design his websites and mommy him while he pines for a not all that attractive stripper who only wants his money. Men are so weird. It's no wonder why I love women.
Posted by at 8:54 PM
Print Friendly · Digg it · del.icio.us · StumbleUpon · Netscape
Comment Policy:
Anonymous comments are allowed. All anonymous comments and comments from those not registered with TypeKey are moderated. They WILL NOT appear until they are read and approved by a moderator.
It is strongly encouraged that you sign up and login with a TypeKey account. Once you do that, your comments will be immediately posted.
