she got fucked by a lot of guys, big guys who liked fucking her, and they all stank of bourbon and come and she said to him, “There! See! I have a purpose. I have a place, and a value. These guys like to fuck me and now I stink of their come. That proves that I am worth something, and the closest you’ll ever get to being worth anything is to clean me up. Put your stupid fucking face on me and lick up that come and booze. Lick me clean so I can go fuck someone else. That’s what you get. You can aspire to be Apprentice Sloppy-Cunt-Licker. How’s that sound? Your fucking validation in your face!” How very strange that would feel, to be so well understood.
He finishes his bourbon and talks the bartender into letting him slip out with a bottle of beer to drink on the short drive to one of LA’s second rate strip clubs. Since they are more or less free of prostitution his money will be more or less safe from a full frontal assault during a moment of weakness. He’ll also stop for a half-pint. They don’t serve alcohol in California clubs that feature total nudity. To him this annoyance is a typically compromising guess by a legislative body fearlessly striking out at a cause that could never strike back with a credible lobby. Pussy and potables don’t mix, at least not the overt kind. That sort of entertainmentrequires a clear head, quick reflexes.
One pocket stocked with bourbon, the other money wise, Ben pays his seven dollars, hears all about the one
drink
minimum, and enters the club. No sooner does he wiggle into the spacious and comfortable seating next to the lavish and ornate stage, than he is attended to by one of the courteous and helpful
cocktail
waitresses.
“There’s a one drink minimum per show. I hope you saw the sign when you came in. Anyway, they’re supposed to tell you. What do you want,” says a swimsuit clad girl—one piece, but it’s a small, oddly shaped piece—holding a small tray.
“Yes, I heard,” says Ben. “That’s no problem. What are my choices?”
The girl sighs. Why is her life plagued with ignorant dolts? “Everything’s three-fifty and there’s no alcohol,” she says.
“Okay, but what do you have?” he says.
“No alcohol. You gotta get something else, and it’s three-fifty. Now what do you want?” She is making it clear that she is irked and can’t be expected to stand around waiting forever for this guy to figure it out.
He tries, “What do you think I should get?”
This is almost too much, now the jerk can’t make up his mind. She gives him what she imagines is her most intimidating look and slowly pronounces, “Non-alcoholic malt beverage, orange soda, coffee, sparkling apple cider, water. One drink minimum per show. Everything is three-fifty. Tell me what you want or I’ll eighty-six you.”
“Water. I’ll have water, please,” he says. “And just how much is it for you to eighty-six me?”
She walks away without responding. She is moving slowly, but her speed picks up as soon as she gets the word
water
written down on a napkin.
As he waits for her return, he watches a naked girl on thestage. Legs spread and knees in air, she grinds out a message to another patron who sits opposite Ben. With great ceremony the man places a dollar bill on the edge of the stage, fixes his gaze between the dancers wide open legs, and winks at her pussy. On the corner to his left another man scribbles nervously on a napkin. Watching this, Ben’s about ready for a slug of bourbon in the rest room, but he wants to pay the waitress first and avoid any further difficulty. He doesn’t want to be eighty-sixed.
She returns carrying a styrofoam cup, into which she splashes some water from a ten ounce bottle. She puts the dripping bottle and cup on the counter in front of him.
“Three-fifty,” she says, staring not at Ben but at whatever might be occupying the space five inches above his left ear.
“Could I have fives, please,” he says, placing a one hundred
He finishes his bourbon and talks the bartender into letting him slip out with a bottle of beer to drink on the short drive to one of LA’s second rate strip clubs. Since they are more or less free of prostitution his money will be more or less safe from a full frontal assault during a moment of weakness. He’ll also stop for a half-pint. They don’t serve alcohol in California clubs that feature total nudity. To him this annoyance is a typically compromising guess by a legislative body fearlessly striking out at a cause that could never strike back with a credible lobby. Pussy and potables don’t mix, at least not the overt kind. That sort of entertainmentrequires a clear head, quick reflexes.
One pocket stocked with bourbon, the other money wise, Ben pays his seven dollars, hears all about the one
drink
minimum, and enters the club. No sooner does he wiggle into the spacious and comfortable seating next to the lavish and ornate stage, than he is attended to by one of the courteous and helpful
cocktail
waitresses.
“There’s a one drink minimum per show. I hope you saw the sign when you came in. Anyway, they’re supposed to tell you. What do you want,” says a swimsuit clad girl—one piece, but it’s a small, oddly shaped piece—holding a small tray.
“Yes, I heard,” says Ben. “That’s no problem. What are my choices?”
The girl sighs. Why is her life plagued with ignorant dolts? “Everything’s three-fifty and there’s no alcohol,” she says.
“Okay, but what do you have?” he says.
“No alcohol. You gotta get something else, and it’s three-fifty. Now what do you want?” She is making it clear that she is irked and can’t be expected to stand around waiting forever for this guy to figure it out.
He tries, “What do you think I should get?”
This is almost too much, now the jerk can’t make up his mind. She gives him what she imagines is her most intimidating look and slowly pronounces, “Non-alcoholic malt beverage, orange soda, coffee, sparkling apple cider, water. One drink minimum per show. Everything is three-fifty. Tell me what you want or I’ll eighty-six you.”
“Water. I’ll have water, please,” he says. “And just how much is it for you to eighty-six me?”
She walks away without responding. She is moving slowly, but her speed picks up as soon as she gets the word
water
written down on a napkin.
As he waits for her return, he watches a naked girl on thestage. Legs spread and knees in air, she grinds out a message to another patron who sits opposite Ben. With great ceremony the man places a dollar bill on the edge of the stage, fixes his gaze between the dancers wide open legs, and winks at her pussy. On the corner to his left another man scribbles nervously on a napkin. Watching this, Ben’s about ready for a slug of bourbon in the rest room, but he wants to pay the waitress first and avoid any further difficulty. He doesn’t want to be eighty-sixed.
She returns carrying a styrofoam cup, into which she splashes some water from a ten ounce bottle. She puts the dripping bottle and cup on the counter in front of him.
“Three-fifty,” she says, staring not at Ben but at whatever might be occupying the space five inches above his left ear.
“Could I have fives, please,” he says, placing a one hundred
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