It was an amusing evening. The Diet says that if I must imbibe, which it does not recommend (fucking Puritans), it should be either red wine or a liquor such as vodka or gin. I'm sure they'd cringe at the thought of five vodka martinis, but I've been a good girl, and I think I deserved it. Plus, you just can't be at a titty bar sober.
I have several observations to make about the evening in question, but I must finally confess to my real reason for going to titty bars at all. I want to observe men. It's not as if they are any mystery, but I like having a look at what they do inside establishments that women like myself don't frequent on a regular basis.
I mean, I think women are beautiful and I would much rather see them dance around naked than a bunch of greasy man-strippers on steroids, but I can't say I have any sexual attraction to them. As far as I'm concerned personally, a titty bar for the purpose of sexual arousal/gratification is simply wasted money. And it fucks with my head when I'm trying to have sex. Instead of flipping through my mental rolodex of perversion, I see strippers. And quite frankly, they are pretty tame compared to my vivid imagination.
But I do digress.
One of the girls was a very energetic young sistah. She worked that pole like I've never seen it worked except by one other girl in New Orleans. But she wasn't getting any tips. Blatant racism. Jethro, being of a non-racist, conservative persuasion, hates to see hard work go unrewarded, so he went up to give her a dollar. How was Young Sistah to know Jethro is a tit-man and slightly terrified of booty? She (on all fours) wrapped her legs around Jethro and slammed her big ol' booty right into his chest after shaking it like a dog in the rain. Jethro claims his ribs were bruised.
But who knew I had a jealous bone in my body? For one infinitesimal moment, I imagined myself triumphantly waving around a bloody scalp full of hair extensions. I'm actually relieved I had those feelings. You can't manufacture jealousy, and I was starting to think I was an arrogant bitch who might, in her overconfidence, launch her husband straight into the arms of temptation. Turns out that I'm not a total moron and for my own security, I have to jerk the leash once in awhile.
There was another interesting occurance as well. One of the strippers was assaulted by a patron. The patron was female. I didn't see the whole thing because I was in the restroom, but I was told that Psycho Girl came up to the stripper, dollar in hand, and started beating her ass - as in literally beating the stripper on the ass with her hand. I saw Psycho Girl and she was flying high on something. I have no idea what, but it seemed vicious. When I got out there, Psycho was still zooming around, waving her dollar bill. She tried to go up to the stripper again and when the stripper moved to get away from her, she started frenziedly beating her own ass. I was surprised the bouncers didn't launch Psycho out of there, but it in a way I'm glad they didn't because no one got hurt and it was pretty funny.
Another thing. No matter what gentlemen say about how savvy they are to the game, they are all suckers in a titty bar. I don't hold it against them, mind you. I mean it's fun and it's probably safer than picking up some strange and doing it in the back of your Dodge. Still, it's not possible to go to a place like that and participate in any way without buying into the scam at least a little. But you can't rape the willing, and I didn't see anyone's arm being twisted, so there you have it.
And it's fascinating to blog about if nothing else.
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