small brush shouldn't fuck with big timber

Death's Door, the view from the Spanish announcers table: <strong>strippers</strong>

Tuesday, March 2


For years my idea of high entertainment consisted of hopping into the car and heading to the local strip club. Shit, I was a regular at the strip clubs before I even started going to regular bars. I used to find em so relaxing, cause where else could you go and hear loud music, and have a few cocktails and watch semi nekked woman work hard to entertain you. I’ve lived with strippers, dated strippers, and hung out with strippers. But it’s been years since I’ve stepped into a strip club, and you know what? I miss em. Yes I do. I miss going to Legs, Shadow’s, the Red Apple, the Pink Garter, Bunns, Chouteau Inn, Cotton Eyed Joes, the Apartment Lounge, Gus’s Gold Mine, and all the rest whose names I can’t remember. I’d walk in and take a seat at a table in back or at the bar and order up a whiskey and coke whilst watching Candy, Brandy, Angel, Amber, Porsche, Bunny, Destiny, Ginger, Crystal, Houston, Mercedes, Tiffany, Sin, Cricket, Starr, Serenity and Tiger, spin and work the brass pole up on stage. Back then it was a dollar every so often for the jukebox and a buck or two to tip the ones you thought were special. Once the girls learned you were cool, they’d come sit with you and take a breather from the crowd. That’s when you learned about the kids, the day job, and the fact that they were just trying to make shit happen the best way they could. And trust me, there’s something so soothing about listening to a woman yak about her day that after a while you tend to forget the fact that her muffy’s tickling your hand, and all that pressure you feel on your shoulder are her nekked 38D’s. It’s just another chick diggin that she can time-out from the job and relax with a friend. One of these day’s I should repost all my stripper stories just for the shit and grins factor. A good read is always fun.


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