Apr 27 2010

Shaking Things Up

Hey Kids!

I know I’ve been a little MIA lately, but I have a very valid explanation.  I’ve been bored out of my mind.  And it’s my fault too.  I don’t know when drinking copious amounts of alcohol, staying out past midnight, and in general acting like a shady drunken whore stopped being a mainstay in my life.  Sadly, it has.

I most recently realized this when I blew half my spring wardrobe budget on a new stacked washer/dryer.  When a good friend casually asked me what I was up to the following Saturday night I announced with genuine glee and excitement “Doing laundry!” She raised an eyebrow so I thought I’d thwart any of her doubts by adding “Oh, you don’t understand.  It has steam clean technology. And the drum is huge!  I can fit an entire queen size duvet in there.”  She still didn’t look convinced, so I said the saddest thing in my spinster burrito career.  “The dryer has a halogen light and if I turn up a DVR recording of Glee’s Madonna episode and stick my head in the door, it kinda feels like a 90s Vegas night club.”

After I said that I realized what was meant to be a joke that would deflect her worry about the bleak turn my life had been taking, was actually the truth.  I had been centering my evenings around American Idol and house chores for far too long. It was time to shake things up a bit.

While I live solo in a  Santa Monica condo decorated in designer fabric and maintained with fastidious care, my boy toy Spam lives in a what can only be likened to an artistic commune in Little Armenia.  It’s decor is anchored by three suspiciously stained couches that are flanked by a hodge podge of instruments and topped with randomly placed psychedelic artwork.  It stands as a symbol of how not boring the people who occupy it are (given the state of the bathroom and color of the couches it also stands as a symbol of the sustainability of college life and bachelorhood).  I figured if I wanted to shake things up, I should spend more time there.

So one night after acting class, I decided to drop by and see what’s shaking.  It was about 9:30pm and, although I was wiped, I figure I could muster a little “get my drink on.”  I arrived to Spam and his housemate/best friend, lets call him Crispy Chicken, chilling on the couches drinking vino.  Jackpot!  My kind of party.  I’m thinking “Lets toss back a bottle and hit the hay!”  Unfortunately I didn’t get that lucky.  They met my presence with “Hey Burrito.  We’re going out in a bit.  Wanna join?”

Go out?  It’s almost 10 o’clock on a week night?!  This isn’t Europe!  But I came to shake things up so I say.  “Hells yeah.  Where are we going?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll see how we feel later.”

Later?  This must be a joke.  I’ll be asleep later.  But sure enough 11:30pm rolls around and a group of us head out to a trendy speakeasy in West Hollywood.  I didn’t actually plan on going anywhere cool or trendy therefore neglected to bring cool or trendy clothes to change into.  So, I make a weak attempt to spiff up what I’m wearing then head out with the rest of the clan.  When we get there the place is packed.  I had no idea this many people my age stayed up so late.

After getting 20 questions from the bouncer (I thought he was trying to make sure my ID wasn’t fake because I looked so young, Spam said it was because he needed a distraction while hot girls were let in ahead of the line. Tomatoes Tomatoes).  I saddled up to the very crowded bar and ordered a non-wine beverage (’cause only homebody’s drink wine at a super cool speakeasy).  We slid into a booth and watched the scene.  It was dark, the music was loud, the people were beautiful, and the drinks were strong.  I felt so cool.

Then about an hour later, that was enough.  I’d had my fill of cool and just wanted to go home and sleep.  Since we’d taken my car (it was the only mode of transportation I felt confident wouldn’t break down and didn’t reek of cannabis), I informed Spam to round up the troops so I could drive them home.  When I got back from the bathroom, ready to head out….everyone had disappeared.  Oh no.  This couldn’t be good.  I finally found Spam and asked him what the deal was. He had no clue where everyone was either.  Then suddenly, my phone rang.  It was Crispy Chicken.

“Burrito!” He yelled over loud music.

“Hey, where are you guys? I’m ready to go.”

“We’re across the street.  Tell Spam to meet us at the club across the street.”

“Okay, am I not invited?”

“I guess you can come if you want.”

“Alright, we’ll meet you guys there.”

We made our way out front and looked across the street.  The sign read  LIVE NUDE GIRLS.

Seriously!!!!??  Are you kidding me!!!????

I wasn’t about to leave my boy toy at a strip club with a bunch of his determined friends, so I headed in.  It was quintessentially shady and a bit slow.  I was immediately ushered to a booth with the rest of the boys and hassled to get a drink, which was a good thing.  If I was going to hang at a strip club I was gonna need some more booze.

“What will  you have to drink?” A busty waitress begged of me.

“I’ll take a whiskey.”

“No alcohol.”

“Oh, beer and wine only?  Then I’ll just have a light beer.”

“NO ALCOHOL!” She yelled at me like I was some dumb stripper.  Which was funny. Then it hit me.  Holy crap.  No alcohol.  This must be a butt-naked.

I made this realization and noticed a stripper on the stage bent over with no undies on at the same time.  Awesome.

“Water, I’ll have water.” I said reluctantly.

No sooner had I ordered water did the strippers descend on me.  Apparently they like-a-the ladies.  One in particular was very aggressive and kept suggesting I get a lap dance with her.  She also kept asking if I was into girls and although I was at a female strip club I was a little insulted that she’d assume I was a lesbian.  Then I re-examined my ensemble.  Those boots really gave off the wrong signal.

Eventually Crispy Chicken couldn’t take it anymore and bought me a lap dance with my aggressor.  I was furious but also intimidated. It’s hard to act huffy in a but naked when you’re dressed like Melissa Etheridge.  So, I went with her to the back room to get a lap dance, determined to sit there rigid and uninviting until the whole mess was over.

Oddly enough this wasn’t my first lap dance.  I got my first lap dance at the Spearmint Rhino in Vegas when a group of Bachelors thought it would be funny/hot to see a lady grind another lady.  I was flattered at the time and, with profuse encouragement from my friends, took the plunge.  It wasn’t so bad.  But then again she had a bikini on and I was wasted.  The only thing I really do remember is assuring her that she was very pretty and not knowing what to do with my hands.  I got all Ricky Bobby.

This was not the same kind of lap dance.

After leading me to a dimly lit back room complete with sticky leather arm chairs and copious flat screens showing gonzo porn, “Carmen” introduced herself properly then offered to wait until the next song began so I got a “full session.”  Very thoughtful of her, no?

When the song began I glued my legs together and clinched my fists while she began to shimmy.  Eventually Carmen kindly asked me to part my legs because it was making it really hard for her to dance.  I reluctantly did and immediately regretted it  because she dropped her drawers and started rubbing her but in my face.

“I haven’t danced for a girl in so long.  I really like it.”

“Oh, well I’m glad I could oblige you.”  What the hell did I just say?

“You can touch.” She assured me.

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“No really, it’s okay.  I don’t mind it when girls touch.”

She took my hand and started slapping her ass with it.  I just kinda went limp and let her have at it.  When she let go I could tell she wanted me to keep going so I gave her a few independent whacks to assure her that she was doing a good job.  I felt like Carmen probably had low self-esteem, being a stripper and all, and I didn’t want to make her feel bad.

Apparently my modest self esteem booster was a full on green light for Carmen because with lighting fast skills she stealthily flipped around and started motor-boating my face in her boobs. On a positive note her breast seemed to be real, I contemplated if this would be more or less suffocating with fake boobs as I waited for her to release the death grip she had on the back of my head.

“Do you like that?”  She said in a dirty voice.

“Okay.” I said.  Well, what was I suppose to say?!

The song started to fade and I started to get excited about finally escaping the back room.   Carmen began gathering up her fallen bikini then turned to me and said.

“That was fun.  I can give you another song for free if you want.  A two for one?”

“Oh, no,” I jumped out of the chair and started heading for the door. “No no, I mean you were great, but I’m fine with one. One song is good.”

“Wow, nobody has ever turned down a two for one before.”

“Well, I was so satisfied with the one you see.  I’m gonna get back to my friends. You were great.  Thanks.”  I speed walked back to the booth where Spam was shoeing off a blond sitting in my spot.

“How was it?!” He asked with anticipation.

“I slapped her ass,” was all I could get out.

A few minutes later my ass slapping stripper came back by the table to let me know she would be dancing in a few songs and that we should stick around to see her.  I had seen enough, but wanted to be polite.  I don’t know why I cared so much about being polite?  I was in a strip club!!!!  Then the music came on, the lights changed, and Carmen, my stripper, hit the stage.

Up until now the lights in the club had been very dim, bright enough to get the picture, but not bright enough to see the details.  Well I was finally getting all of Carmen’s details and here’s the fine print y’all.  She’s a midget.  HOW I missed this ’til that moment is still unknown, but I did.  We all dropped our jaws in realization.

“THAT’S your stripper?!”  Crispy Chicken blurted out.

“She has velociraptor arms,” Spam said.

“She totally does. I just got a dance from a little person,” I said with a shaky voice.

A few seconds later Carmen started skipping around the stage, looking more and more like a circus performer, and not in the good way.

“We can go now.” Spam finally offers, realizing I’d gone through enough.

Crispy Chicken and the rest of the gang easily agreed and we all headed for the car while I generously purelled my hands and face.

That night, as I was lying in bed recounting the evening’s events, I realized two things:

1. I had successfully shaken things up, both figuratively and literally. Mission Accomplished.

2. I’m at peace with being a little bit boring.

Maybe laundry and singing shows aren’t the ideal, but speakeasies and strip clubs aren’t either.  Something in between. So tonight I will joyfully steam clean my pashminas and sip vino while I decide weather I like Sioban Magnus’s rendition of  Shina Twain’s Any Man of Mine, and tomorrow….

I will strap on some platforms and take my first pole dancing class.

Wish me luck!