The Moose in the Closet: I Dream of Strippers

No comic plug today, I didn’t get to read any yesterday. I don’t talk about my day or the state of my life on this blog but for those of you that don’t know, my day job is doing chemical/bio/nuclear terrorism think-tanking, preparedness and countermeasures for military and civilians. I’m supporting the White House for a demonstration in two weeks, just started Monday, rush-job kind of stuff. So the stories this week (and next) are coming out a bit short but, you know, I’m saving your life you ungrateful prick. Plus, I’m trying to tell some of the better ones.

And on that note, let’s talk about titties, shall we?
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I love strippers. I know it’s wrong of me, a progressive, left-leaning male to love strippers. But I don’t care. I love them. Life would not be fun without strippers. Only in a strip club can I combine my need for beer, cigar and titty at the same time. And strippers got that smell when they pull up close to you; it’s that secret perfume that only they know how to get combined with magic oils and powders – Eau De Stripper. I love their names – my girlfriend’s name is Robin, my stripper’s name is Cinnamon. I love the smile and the voice and the way they move.

Due to this love, I’ve been sneaking into strip clubs since I was a little on the young-side, going with friends to the seedier joints that we were able to sneak into with little effort. So the concept of the stripper was no stranger to me on Mickey’s 20th birthday when we ordered a stripper for him, but the whole private party stripper – I wasn’t prepared for that at all.

We had the party at Mickey’s friend’s house since at the time we were all still living in the dorm. We show up to find that the friend invited a bunch of people as well, there’s about 30 extremely horny dudes in this house, most of them already hammered. The stripper is supposed to show in a half hour so we get to drinking.

She gets there late. We’re all super anxious, almost an hour has passed. Finally this big black guy named Steve comes into the house, gathers us around and tells us the rules. Don’t touch, please tip, she’ll stay around afterwards if anyone wants a “private show” (not sure what that means, I know not to fall for the Champagne Room, this could be the same thing). We all agree. If a big black guy named Steve told me that the earth was flat I’d agree with him, so the whole “don’t touch the titty thing” – no problem.

The stripper comes in, no idea what her name was, and she looks just like Mariah Carey before she hit the wall. Slamming. The whole room lights up as Steve slink into the darkness, watching and waiting for someone to fuck up.

She turns on her radio and starts doing her thing and it is NASTY. This ain’t like some girl at a strip club, this girl is touching herself quite sexually, inserting fingers and showing off the goods for 60 wide eyes.

She really starts getting into it, grabbing guys and grinding them, having us drink beer off of her body. At one point she lays Mickey down and stands over him, naked, doing her little dance, rubbing him in all the right places. She takes his glasses off and rubs them on her chocha, gives them back to Mickey.

And Mickey, the quiet Hindu pre-med student who drinks beer once a month and, as far as I know, never even made out with a girl (he had a pre-arranged marriage for fucks sake), looked at us all, glasses in hand, smiled and licked them. Voraciously.

He licked a hookers snatch-juice off of his coke-bottled dork glasses. And all we could do was cheer him on, Mickey was officially nastier than the stripper.

I don’t think anyone took the stripper up on her private show offer – it was like a hundred bucks. I could get R to do whatever I wanted and all I needed to do was buy her dinner or make her feel bad about herself, depending on how much money I had left over from my pay check.

I still love a good strip club, absolutely. But man, I’m always looking for an excuse to hire a stripper or two to come to a private party. I have to be careful now, though. Protecting you from killer virus’ pays me well and that private show offer would be a lot harder to turn down.

Either way, stripper snatch-juice will not be allowed within two feet of my face – that shit is just nasty.

Labels: mitc

I Dream of Strippers

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

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