Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Mustang Sally’s

Mustang Sally’s is a bottle club. You bring your own beer and the girls get completely naked. Weird state laws prevent fine establishments such as this from selling alcohol when the dancers are totally nude. Most of the time you find clubs where they either sell alcohol and the girls wear pasties or you bring your own alcohol and the girls get completely naked. On our way there, on the winding narrow roads whipping through the backwoods, my girlfriend’s husband was driving us at seventy miles per hour. It was terrifying. I was in the backseat with all the windows open. It was making me chilly. Normally I enjoy being a little chilly, but this was just a little too much, just enough to be uncomfortable. The air was roaring.

When we arrived, the parking lot was full of trucks, men, and coolers. The building looked new, with a huge, impressive neon sign. Upon payment and entrance, you are given a plastic cup. They come in a few different colors. Mine was fluorescent orange. Neon pink and green appeared to be the only other options. It was also screen-printed with the black outline of a sexy-looking, cartoon cowgirl standing between two galloping horses, all in front of giant flames. The logo sat beneath, drawn in rope. Below that was the phone number of the club and its web address. The main stage was big, and lit dramatically. It looked like every other stage I’ve ever seen in a strip club, only newer. The spot where the brass pole met the ceiling looked like it had been peppered with buck shot. The little holes from where the girls’ heels had punctured the drop ceiling formed a halo in the panel around the top of the pole. Bad, radio-friendly metal from the late '90s throbbed over the PA. The girls were all in good shape. Many were quite athletic, and did things that made me dizzy. They smiled a lot, and looked cute and occasionally innocent in the neon glow. At other moments you could see their detachment. I watched a girl get on her hands and knees, point her ass at a man, spread her legs and pump her cheeks and crotch in his face, which was just inches away. He stared into her vagina like money was going to fall out of it. While she did this, her face was pointed away from most of the patrons. It was apparent that she didn’t think that anybody was looking at her face, as she looked utterly disinterested with what she was doing. Not uncomfortable, just disconnected. I generally feel disconnected from what I do for a living. How was this any different? It didn’t spoil the experience for me. I actually felt more intimate with her as a result of it. I felt like I had actually seen something that I wasn’t supposed to see, and that’s the very reason you go to a strip club anyway. I felt like we had something in common. It was humanizing. Later, the same girl came over and pressed her breasts against my face—a nipple in each eye—and shook them for a few seconds. I tipped her.

Eventually most of us got drunk and we all decided to leave. My wife’s boyfriend resumed driving duties, as he hadn’t been drinking. I got blown in the backseat on the way back to their place. He drove with no less abandon than during the initial trip, which made the experience that much more exhilarating.

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