What you are about to read in a personal insight to my personal life and should be viewed as such. This is not an attempt to brag, attack, belittle, or otherwise negatively impact anyone other than the occasional opportunity to make fun of myself. If you are a family member: know that you’re about to read something that could make future interaction weird. If you are someone I have dated in the past and what you’re reading sounds like I am talking about you – I probably am. If you feel the need to be snarky in the comments section, be my guest. Just know I will reply with equal or greater snarkiness. NO names will be mentioned. Dates will be changed. No one is innocent, but I’ll do my best to protect us.
P.S. – MOM, this is one of those posts you probably should avoid if we are going to make eye contact any time soon.
Back in my early 20’s, 20 to be exact, I spent a LOT of time running around with strippers…
Let me explain: I’d gotten involved with a semi-pro football league here in the Dallas area, and it just so happened that the guy that “owned” our team also happened to own a couple of gentleman’s clubs. Naturally, as a team, we took full advantage of this. Need to get together to talk about our pass defense? Might as well meet up at the club. Being a member of the team, and a friend of our team owner – it was never a point of contention of whether or not I was legally old enough to drink – I was just always served. As long as the owner was around with us (which he always was) I also drank for free. You take the fact that I was 20-years-old, in pretty amazing physical condition, and somewhat attractive – naturally the girls flocked to me like the salmon of Capistrano. As things would have it, I ended up in a relationship with a woman who we will call “Tiny Dancer” for the sake of our story…
One night I was at one of the clubs, the one Tiny Dancer DID NOT work at, and was enjoying a whiskey drink or 3 with our team owner while we discussed something that was probably fairly important at the time. At least to us. I happened to look up and see Tiny Dancer literally skipping with glee across the room on a collision course with our table. I leaned back and let her jump into my lap (she was tiny), and she looked at our team owner and said, “I’m stealing him.” I looked to our owner for some sort of intervention, but he just raised his hands in pacification and said, “he is all yours.” Tiny Dancer kind of giggled/squeaked and grabbed me by my elbow and lead me out of the club…
Into the maw of an awaiting limo full of strippers.
Now you’d think that a group of strippers would be like a high-strung collection of adverse personalities that would create a scenario of pending drama and possibly a cat fight. You’d be dead wrong. When these women got together they became a pride of lionesses, and I was a gazelle with a large-caliber bullet wound.
Apparently the girls were celebrating something (I never figured out what) and they wanted a man to tag along with their shenanigans. I could only imagine for what purpose. I was quickly put at ease with some medicine in the form of another whiskey drink, so I just sat back and said to myself, “what’s the worst that can happen?” I didn’t expect to get an answer to that question.
The evening started out simply enough: we bounced around to a few clubs and bars. I was in the middle of a pack of hot, half-naked women so we generally just got ushered in the door without question. Drinks kept appearing in my hands, so again, I didn’t ask questions. The trips between clubs starting getting more and more interesting as the alcohol continued to flow. By “interesting”, of course i mean, “I’m not going into detail – but it was certainly not a moment I’d want reviewed upon my arrival to the pearly gates.”
The last stop was the only male strip club in Dallas, and I politely declined to go inside. I cited the fact that I’d been drinking fairly heavily and needed time to “recover”. That seemed to placate the lionesses to an extent and they left me alone. I managed to find a couple of bottles of water, smoke a couple of cigarettes, talk to the driver a little, and might have taken a nap. Which was a good thing – because when the pride came back – they absolutely destroyed me…
Again, without going into much detail, just thinking about that limo ride makes me think that I still need a little jesus in my life. The drive back to the club we started at was the longest one so far, which was very, very unfortunate for me. 10 minutes after pulling out of the parking lot of the male strip club I was basically at the bottom of a pile of naked women. Drunk. At least 45 minutes from where we were headed. I don’t care how much of a man you think you are – this is a scenario that can lead to death. I did what I could do to keep up but eventually I did the unthinkable: I passed out.
The next think I know I am waking up on the floor of the limo. I’m mostly naked and suffering from a hangover that I was pretty sure was going to require chemotherapy to get rid of.
I’m also completely alone.
I managed to gather my clothes that weren’t torn to shreds, get dressed, and get my head together. I’m focusing on calming myself down. Panic is not an option.
I look out the window of the limo, and through the heavy tint I got the worst piece of news I could imagine: I’m in the hood. DEEP in the hood. Now I don’t know your experience with “The Hood”, but you have to think of it like an onion. There is the edge of the hood, the part you drive past and say “wow, that’s the hood.” Now if you take a turn and head deeper into the hood you’ll see that it gets progressively worse. Based on what I could see – I was at least 37 layers deep in the hood. It was roughly 4 in the morning and there were people milling around everywhere. There was a basketball game being played by the headlights of a few cars. There were kids running around. I was at the literal corner of “Stab Whitey Avenue and Shoot Whitey Boulevard”.
The limo was parked in a small lot with a couple of other cars surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The thought occurred to me to just lay down and wait until the next morning and let the hangover subside. That way I could collect my thoughts and make good decisions on how to get out of my predicament. Yeah, instead I figured out that there was no whiskey left, and opened the door of the limo…
Which set off the alarm.
I don’t know what kind of car alarm this limo had in it, but the siren that began blaring made the air raid sirens in London during the Blitz sound like a mouse fart. The entire hood turned in my direction…
What do they see? A sketchy looking white guy standing next to the open door of a limo parked in a secure parking lot. I tried to say something that would possibly disarm the situation, but the human larynx was not made to contend with the volume of the alarm on the limo. I did the next thing that came to mind, which happened to be the worst thing I could have done: I ran.
The Hood took up pursuit. All of it.
I managed to make it over the fence closest to me and on the opposite side of the block from the crowd that was gathering to catch this obvious crazy-ass car thief. I was pretty quick for my size, but on that night my legs moved with a speed that can only come from sheer terror. I could hear people behind me yelling “get his ass!” and “he’s over here!” I was ducking between houses, lights were coming on, I was in pure survival mode. A couple of times I came within arm’s reach of people trying to catch me. All the while trying not to puke from panic and the hangover. Not to mention not shitting my pants, which was quickly becoming an option for escape. No one wants to mess with “shitty pants guy.”
Somehow I managed to lose the crowd by running through a hedge that I think might have had a fence in it. I popped out the other side scratched and bleeding, but alone. I was in the parking lot of a beer store and miraculously there was a Dallas police car parked 15 feet away. He looked at me out his window like I was a velociraptor that had just exploded out of the bushes. In fact, I think a raptor would have been less of a shock. He slowly rolled down his window and very calmly said, “what in the hell are you doing down here?” I very quickly explained that I’d gotten left in a limo (without mentioning the gallons of whiskey and pile of strippers that lead up to that) and asked if he could help me. “Get in.” he said with a little grin, and unlocked the door.
The wonderful, amazing, life-saving police officer drove me back to the club where my truck was parked and dropped me off. Just in time for me to realize that I’d left my keys in the club. The club was locked. My phone was in my truck. My truck was locked. “Fuck it,” I thought, and just climbed into the bed of my truck and laid down. After the night I’d had it was all I could do. I curled up in the bed of my truck and went to sleep.
When I woke up it was almost dark again…
The club parking lot was 3/4 full, so I knew it was getting late into the evening. I crawled out of my truck and staggered inside looking like I’d just fought my way through a valley in Afghanistan and got some very interesting looks from people on my way in. I immediately headed to the owner’s office where my keys were, and when I opened the door he looked at me like he’d seen a ghost. “You’re Alive!!” he blurted while he stood up and embraced me. I looked at him like he was crazy and said, “of course I am alive…what did you think happened?”
He went on to explain to me that Tiny Dancer assumed that I didn’t make it back to my truck – because it was still at the club when she went to find me the night before. She couldn’t figure out where I was and she couldn’t get ahold of me (phone in truck) so she panicked. The next morning the girls managed to get ahold of the limo driver and he said that I wasn’t in the limo, but that someone had tried to break into the limo the night before and fled on foot. Talk in the neighborhood was that a crazy white guy wreaked all kinds of havoc on his way through the hood and disappeared. Tiny Dancer and the owner had called every police agency and hospital in the area and couldn’t find me. As far as they could tell, I’d literally fallen off of the face of the planet.
When in reality I was asleep in the bed of my truck 300 feet away…
I was allowed to shower int he dancer’s dressing room, and was was able to at least put on a shirt that wasn’t torn from bushes, fences, or strippers. By the time I got myself put together, Tiny Dancer had showed up and was in tears about being so worried about me. I assured her that I was fine, and eventually (many days later) we managed to laugh about it. To this day, I get nervous when there are more than 3 strippers in close proximity of me.