Went to a strip club last night for a bachelor party. (Yes, that’s correct. And, yes, I did take a bottle of Purel in with me. Don’t judge.) The plan of attack for the evening was as follows: Drink obscene amounts of alcohol at a bar, go to strip club, drink to excess again, leave, repeat.
Joy.
The evening’s festivities started at 7pm when a bus picked up the motley crew. The den of iniquity we visited was Bonita Flats. It was on the outskirts of town … and by outskirts I mean I spotted a coyote fishing around for god-knows-what outside the building’s dumpster. Like any quality establishment of ill repute, the place looked as if surly longshoreman had constructed it in less than three days. Once inside, I quickly realized that the longshoreman who built the joint had never left. They were imbibing alongside what appeared to be a convention of truckers. Not only that, but, bonus! — many of the male extras from the movie “Cocoon” were also on hand to revel in the revelry.
After paying my obligatory $5 to get in (bargain!), I did what any smart patron would do … I immediately looked for fire exits. One can never be too safe when partying inside a dimly lit tin can, mind you. After my eyes adjusted to the glowing orb of black light, I was in for a visual feast. It was a veritable bonanza of thinly veiled girls as far as the eyes could see. Unfortunately, being sober and having perfect vision, I realized this was not, repeat NOT, Kansas City’s finest.
The girls at Bonita Flats have lowered their standards so much, it’s almost as if they’ve given up trying. The highlight of their dance routine is eagerly spraying down the stripper pole with Windex Plus after each performance. I sat back, ordered a drink and let the fur fly … so to speak. Before I had even been served my white wine spritzer, a lovely young lady Blondieee (“with three E’s”) came out of nowhere and landed on my lap. She must have rappelled down from the ceiling because I never saw her coming. She asked if I wanted a dance and looked incensed when I politely declined. I mentioned that her schoolgirl uniform did not look regulation, but did appreciate how well she accessorized her ensemble. I didn’t see much of her after that.
Kansas is, by and large, filled with white people. So imagine my surprise when I saw dancers of every race, creed and origin. It was like a poor man’s United Colours of Benetton ad. I’m not sure, but I think one of them may have been pregnant. No matter, she was still very limber and agile. I predict the baby suffers from vertigo. The dancers who came up to me, all six of them, were all very congenial, but focused on the task at hand: to separate me from my money. They were unsuccessful. Total dollars spent for the evening: $2. And that was only because you are forced to give $1 whenever the head stripper comes around with a tip bucket. I didn’t ask. I just plunked down $1. She smelled like cheap perfume, gin and regret … so it was the least I could do.
And don’t even get me started on the shoes. Most of the girls there are 5’5″, but suddenly become a 6ft. Glamazon with the help of 6+ inch heels. It’s fun to watch new girls teeter around like they’ve lost their equilibrium and/or their minds. I wonder how many broken ankles befall these girls? I actually took the time to compliment one girl Lola (“with one A”) on her killer footwear. “My hoofers are hurting,” she lamented in a voice that sounded like my very butch mechanic. She was also wearing a feather boa, which I think may have covered up her Adam’s apple, less I digress.
Men, once plied with copious amounts of alcohol, truly believe these girls enjoy spending time in their company. Fortunately, the guys at the bachelor party were seasoned veterans and were having no part of it. Many of them just spent their evening drinking heavily and ogling. And then one by one nearly every one of them lost their ever-lovin’ minds. More on that in Part II.