I like to think of myself as a reasonably fun chick. I’ll try anything once - twice if I feel it needs another chance. So when my boyfriend invited me to join him and his friends at one of the first places they partied when they got to Fayetteville "for nostalgic reasons" – on our date night, no less – I decided to go. My boyfriend’s friends had somehow managed to coerce two random chicks to go with us, both professional women, so I felt a little less apprehensive about going. And I’m sorry dad, I know you’re probably gonna read this and I hope it makes you feel better to know that I will never go into this line of work. Not because I don’t respect it, but because I don’t have the balls or desire to rub my goodies in strange peoples’ faces. Moving right along:
Let me start out by explaining that my boyfriend under the influence of a lot of beer is funnier than when he is sober; he’s sweet and manageable. When introduced to any type of hard liquor, the lucky-to-have-me bastard loses his mind. It’s like listening to a cross between a disgruntled, old, half deaf, Vietnam War veteran and a retired football star reliving his glory days in stereo surround sound. Sometimes, he gets mad at himself and then forgives himself out loud. Other times he looks at me like he doesn’t know me and gives me the L.L. Cool J lip licking smile and nod until he realizes I’m his girlfriend and then comes in for the kiss – wet lips and all. Good times.
It was dollar beer night at Easy V’s on Sunday night and I listened to the boys reminisce about how their roommate lost two iPhones there, spent $400 on alcohol and girls and some other story that I only half listened to because I realized it was only 7 p.m. and we were sitting at a strip club with no girls shaking it for dollar bills. Talk about major disappointment. My boyfriend explained to me that it was still early and the girls were late. His roommate took one of the other chicks who came with us to play pool and his friend was deeply engrossed in the other chick’s assets – I mean conversation.
Seriously, the atmosphere was not that bad, the music was better than any dance club in Fayetteville and the service was pretty good even if I didn’t drink. I relaxed a little and was enjoying listening to the boyfriend talk about his past adventures, how clubs in Fayetteville don’t compare to the ones back home and that there was a certain etiquette any patron of a gentlemen’s club should be aware of. That last bit came out of a comment I made about how I didn’t care to see him spend his money on another chick to shake her ass when he could spend those two dollars on me – hell, I’d do it for a soda (not really dad). I was watching the struggle he was having as other dudes got their faces mashed between baby oiled, perfumed stripper-breasts – he wanted it pretty bad but was holding back for me. How sweet. Then it was like a lightbulb went off in his intoxicated brain. He shoved two dollars in my shirt, smiled like he won something and pointed to the stage.
There was a dancer straddling another chick and giving her face a boob massage and my boyfriend wanted me to get the same facial treatment. There is nothing more gross to me than having random people’s sweaty, oily, perfumed body parts rubbed all over my face – no offense ladies who are exotic dancers, but while I saw dancers wipe down the pole, I never saw them wipe where some guy’s face had been. Germ collecting at it’s finest. Ew.
Anyway, this was the closest to a threesome my boyfriend figured he would ever get. I really wanted to do it, but I couldn’t cause I’m not that kind of fun. I didn’t want my boyfriend to be too disappointed so I let him tip the dancers as long as they didn’t give him the boob rub. He held onto that money until a tattooed dancer came onstage and started making out with another girl – he paid them to prolong the performance and got more than two dollars should ever get a man. It pays to be the best looking guy in the gentlemen’s club. And he knew exactly how navigate his way around one. Which brings me to something he said about tipping the girls.
“This is their job, but the money they make isn’t just for them. They have to tip out the DJ, bouncers and, in some cases, a fee to dance at a particular establishment. So, you tip the girls for effort.”
How thoughtful.
It did made sense, though, and I took note of how much the girls were getting tipped that night. It was still early, but it didn’t seem to be going well. One of the girls who came with us was hugging all the dancers, pretty much getting for free what the dudes have to pay for – but not offering money at first. Eventually, after much alcohol, she got cash and was getting her face smooshed for dollar bills. I wished I had extra money to give all of them, but I figured if it wasn’t going well overall, these girls would probably have other jobs. At least one of them was making enough to get a boob job.
We ended up leaving around 9 p.m. and stopping off at the Waffle House like it was 2 a.m. Turns out, the best time to go to the WH is at 9 p.m. on Sunday night – because no one else will be there. Except employees from Olive Garden, dudes coming from an early night at the bar and that one guy who says he’s a barber and needs a ride down Yadkin Road because he has to get to work.
“Who’s hair are you cutting this late at night, dude, there aren’t any barber shops open.”
He held out his beauty apron as proof of his occupation.
“I just need a ride to work. Look, I have money.”
He holds out a handful of cash.
“Then you can pay for a cab. It’s late and we’re going home after this.”
That’s when he started rambling about doing good for others and what if Jesus needed a ride. Which made me think of Joan Osborne’s “What if God Was One of Us.” But seriously, I felt a little sorry for the guy until every horror and Lifetime movie gone wrong scenario played through my brain. After seeing how may different ways a simple “ride to work” could go wrong, I decided that I wanted to live and he was gonna have to just walk.
My boyfriend had been in the bathroom for much of the exchange and when he came out, he looked slightly confused. Mr Barber went through his spiel again and my boyfriend pointed to me and said, “she’s driving,” sat down and proceeded to clean up the biscuits and gravy over loaded hash browns with bacon. I’ve never wanted to slap a person in one instant in my life, but I had to remember he was drunk and men are simple. The simple thought was that he wasn’t driving, I was and therefore, I was responsible for who gets to ride in my car.
Needless to say, I didn’t give homey a ride to whatever job he was trying to get to. I drove home, pretty convinced that he was not, in fact, Jesus in disguise. It was a solid decision that I was happy with. My good deed in being the designated driver and displaying such heroic acts of patience all night was rewarded when, at about 11:30 p.m., my boyfriend was compelled by the many shots of liquor he thought he was secretly drinking, to release every bit of the Waffle House he ate.
I know that sounds callous, but I have my reasons. My only request on nights I go out with my Boyfriend is that he not drink hard liquor. Beer is okay. And it was dollar beer night at Easy V’s, he was throwing dollars at the bartender and treating his friends like a ‘G.’ But there were mirrors on the walls in front of the bar and I could see everytime he went to go get beer, he was buying himself a shot. Was I mad? I probably should have been, but it was just too funny that he though he was being slick. It was going to make for an interesting night – and it did.
