Oh, The Clermont Lounge.

Last night was a huge first for me. I went to The Clermont Lounge (okay, so that wasn’t a first. I’ve been there a few times….though usually I go with my dad. Wait, that doesn’t make this better). Well, I ended up there at the tail end of an awesome, monthly figure study for Dr. Sketchy’s (the reason Daddy and I attend a strip club together, on occasion) which usually consists of 20-30 people with cigarettes and cocktails, situated with their creative implement of choice (sketch pads, spiral notebooks, easels, paint, graphite, oil pastels, charcoal, markers, whatever) around a beautiful burlesque model that would still be too hot to strip at the Clermont if her teeth fell out and she gained 50 lbs. It’s good times.

There’s also a dancer that’s always there, and she’s heavy and older, but she’s well-proportioned and is absolutely hysterical (as she took off her top, she looked back at the three of us and whispered, "I need my Geritol,"). She looks like a 40 year old Bette Midler, and has the cutest little, black, Mary Jane kitty pumps. I’m not sure if anything in that sentence other than the phrase “Mary Jane” is an accurate way to describe shoes, but I figured they ought to sound every bit as cute as they looked. And I think that’s right, anyway. Maybe. Probably not. Chances are most people weren't looking at her shoes, or I would've asked. Thanks a lot, nudity.

Despite missing the art class, Shana, Ariel, and I decided to sit down at the bar and have a drink. I thought to myself, "Self, Shana has the strange ability to get you more drunk than you're used to. So just have one sex on the beach, because it's late and you're already tired. Plus, work with a hangover sucks almost as much as sleeping through your alarm and missing work with a hangover." Well, after the first drink (that Shana kept picking up when I wasn't looking) I went ahead and bought one more. Two drinks shared between two people equals one drink each. It's basic math. As I finished that drink, the three of us were bought a round of shots. And then I was bought another drink. And then we were bought another round of shots. And then I was bought yet another drink.

Now, I am aware that I’m not an extremely unattractive person, but I have never in my life had a stranger buy me a drink. Ever. And ESPECIALLY never had the bartender drop off a drink and say, “This is from the guy over there,” while pointing at some wanna-be frat boy who is doing his best to look suave, like they do in really bad romance movies where the girl thinks the guy is totally lame and then he woos her after she splashes the drink in his face and they ride off to be happy and free on his private jet because he's also a secret millionaire.

I felt like there was some giant joke being played on me, or something. But then the trashy, 5’1”, 190 lbs stripper that was onstage crushed a beer can with her boobs, a move their #1 stripper (named Blondie) is known for, and I was distracted and forgot to worry about why I had two drinks and a shot waiting eagerly to be downed by my suddenly thirsty face.

The moral of this story? If you let your friend cut your hair quite short, and then go to the sleaziest strip club you can find, guys will buy you drinks. And when you start to feel self-conscious, backwoods dancers will crush an empty PBR can with their tits, just for you.

And nothing calms an anxious mind like a smushed can of PBR glistening with stripper boobie sweat.