Strip Club Adventures

Everything was bouncing. The walls. The glasses. The niggas, the bitches. The art. I expected the bitches to be bouncing, its basic economics, but (who the fuck has art hanging in a strip club?).

I took a closer look, and it was close ups of tits and ass. Genius. I smiled when I stepped back from my examination of the female body. And I was surrounded.

They must’ve sensed fresh meat. The way upperclassmen smell virgins.

They grabbed my hand and led me to the front row seat. Every blink turned every move into a centerfold snapshot.

The man at the next table said, “You deserve a raise.” Then stood up to show the lump in his pants.

The dancer said, “I sure do baby, but I need a bigger one than that” And winked at me.

Mr. Dickhead yelled “Ayy!” Then came over to my table. I have always been able to handle myself, but I got the feeling that he was there with a couple of the jerk offs at his table. I stood up. He swung. I backed up, felt soft flesh and something slide against my ass.

I grabbed for my wallet, and it was gone.

“Ayyy!” Mr. Dickhead swung again. I blocked and turned to grab Ms. Sticky palms. She whistled and a bouncer big as a bear lifted me and carried me outside.

“Wait! Wait! She took my fucking wallet.”

He put me down outside the entrance. Ms. Sticky Palms strutted up behind him holding my wallet.

“Naw baby” That fake ID is gonna get us all fucked. She opened it, took out the cash. Counted a hundred in twenties and tens, folded and slid sixty in her bra, put the rest back and handed me my wallet.

She leaned in and whispered.

“I can’t let no tenderonies get us shut down. No matter how fine. Better hide that fake ID too.”

She nodded towards four cops leaning against their cars.