the Redwood Club, and that there would be a male stripper, and she laughed and blew cigarette smoke all over the windshield. I have read about male strippers in at least five magazines. The women all had good things to say in the articles, and in the pictures, the women looked like they were having a good time.
It was twelve dollars at the door, and the woman stamped our hands with a little purple star. The Redwood Club is just a big barroom with a real low sparkling ceiling. Susan knew a lot of the women there and we joined a table with three of her friends near the front. We had been drinking a little vodka in the car, and we had some more, and it was just flat fun being half high out of the house with a room full of women who were just roaring and carrying on.
There were actually two strippers. The first guy was announced as Rick. He came out to a record, the Supremes singing something, and he was very serious about removing his brown silk shirt, and then his brown silk pajama bottoms or whatever they were, and then he played a coy game of thumbs with his G-string for the rest of the song. The second and final song for Rick was The Four Seasons singing “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” He came stepping between the tables like a stretching cat, and Susan actually reached out and stuffed a dollar bill inside his jock along with all the other dollars hanging there like a bouquet.
I’m a buns person. Why that is, I don’t know. But buns can start me up. I loved the arch of Rick’s rear, and when he finally stripped off the G-string and flopped his petunia before us all, Susan and the girls went wild! Susan was laughing and bouncing in her seat and reaching for what she was calling “that banana.” But Rick was a professional; I could tell by the way he kept just beyond an arm’s length.
Then there was a very funny vodka intermission with everyone groaning and laughing and snorting and Susan laughing and asking me wasn’t I glad I came, and you know, I was glad. Not because of Rick’s buns, but because of a warm feeling I had. I really liked Susan and her attitude and the fact that she was a friend of mine.
In high school, when we were juniors, she stopped me after homeroom one morning in the spring and took my arm tightly and walked me down to her locker, smiling so her eyes nearly shut, and she told me she was going to get married. “You’re the first person I’ve told,” she said to me. “And you’re the only person. Do me a favor,” she laughed, “break it to our dear classmates.” And then she said, “You know why we’re doing it?” And she laughed so hard she dropped a book and could hardly get through her own answer, which she had to whisper: “To give the baby a father!” Then she straightened herself out and lifted her chin like a queen and walked off down the corridor, turning once to announce: “The facts of life.”
Now, I’m no good judge of penises. Grant had one, I’m sure. He must have, I think. But the next stripper, Doug, made it clear from his entrance on, that he was out to set new standards for us all. Susan was crazy for him. He would back way up then open his shirt and stride toward the audience as if he was going to jab us all with that heavy G-string. Everyone would scream when he did that. Susan couldn’t stop laughing. She did yell: “What have you got in there anyway, Dougie?” And everybody thought the same thing: that is not all him. Susan would yell, “What is that, a shoe?” and the Redwood Club would just go nuts. But at the end of the third song (Doug stretched his strip to three records), which was Elvis singing “My Way,” we all found out the truth. He turned his back on us and flexed his buns in a way that almost made me shudder, and he flipped his G-string into the fourth row, another eruption of screaming, and he rotated to us revealing the most god-awful THING—and that is the right word, “THING”—in the whole world. It looked like a hammer. The
It was twelve dollars at the door, and the woman stamped our hands with a little purple star. The Redwood Club is just a big barroom with a real low sparkling ceiling. Susan knew a lot of the women there and we joined a table with three of her friends near the front. We had been drinking a little vodka in the car, and we had some more, and it was just flat fun being half high out of the house with a room full of women who were just roaring and carrying on.
There were actually two strippers. The first guy was announced as Rick. He came out to a record, the Supremes singing something, and he was very serious about removing his brown silk shirt, and then his brown silk pajama bottoms or whatever they were, and then he played a coy game of thumbs with his G-string for the rest of the song. The second and final song for Rick was The Four Seasons singing “Big Girls Don’t Cry.” He came stepping between the tables like a stretching cat, and Susan actually reached out and stuffed a dollar bill inside his jock along with all the other dollars hanging there like a bouquet.
I’m a buns person. Why that is, I don’t know. But buns can start me up. I loved the arch of Rick’s rear, and when he finally stripped off the G-string and flopped his petunia before us all, Susan and the girls went wild! Susan was laughing and bouncing in her seat and reaching for what she was calling “that banana.” But Rick was a professional; I could tell by the way he kept just beyond an arm’s length.
Then there was a very funny vodka intermission with everyone groaning and laughing and snorting and Susan laughing and asking me wasn’t I glad I came, and you know, I was glad. Not because of Rick’s buns, but because of a warm feeling I had. I really liked Susan and her attitude and the fact that she was a friend of mine.
In high school, when we were juniors, she stopped me after homeroom one morning in the spring and took my arm tightly and walked me down to her locker, smiling so her eyes nearly shut, and she told me she was going to get married. “You’re the first person I’ve told,” she said to me. “And you’re the only person. Do me a favor,” she laughed, “break it to our dear classmates.” And then she said, “You know why we’re doing it?” And she laughed so hard she dropped a book and could hardly get through her own answer, which she had to whisper: “To give the baby a father!” Then she straightened herself out and lifted her chin like a queen and walked off down the corridor, turning once to announce: “The facts of life.”
Now, I’m no good judge of penises. Grant had one, I’m sure. He must have, I think. But the next stripper, Doug, made it clear from his entrance on, that he was out to set new standards for us all. Susan was crazy for him. He would back way up then open his shirt and stride toward the audience as if he was going to jab us all with that heavy G-string. Everyone would scream when he did that. Susan couldn’t stop laughing. She did yell: “What have you got in there anyway, Dougie?” And everybody thought the same thing: that is not all him. Susan would yell, “What is that, a shoe?” and the Redwood Club would just go nuts. But at the end of the third song (Doug stretched his strip to three records), which was Elvis singing “My Way,” we all found out the truth. He turned his back on us and flexed his buns in a way that almost made me shudder, and he flipped his G-string into the fourth row, another eruption of screaming, and he rotated to us revealing the most god-awful THING—and that is the right word, “THING”—in the whole world. It looked like a hammer. The
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