I do go out

Last night a group of Austin strippers gathered for a night out. There was Hot Retired Stripper, Baby Stripper, Swinger Stripper accompanied by her cute, funny, employed boyfriend, Studious Stripper, Redheaded Stripper, and then a few others we picked up over the course of the evening. And me, Wayward Stripper.

The night began at HRS's place, marked with this instantly recognizable totem:


No mistaking the place. We spent a couple of hours talking about girl sex, man sex, torturing the cats with loud noises, listening to Gogol Bordello, eating candy and drinking (me drinking my water, natch). Then off to Perfect 10, where I finally got to see a girl once described to me thusly: "You could be torso twins! You have the same boobs, tummy, and ass! I thought she was you before I looked at her face!" Being, as all strippers are, afflicted with a bit of narcissism, I had to get a lapdance. It was awesome. We didn't get approached by too many dancers so I had to say yes to this brilliant sales pitch: "Would any of y'all like a table dance?" That's a lot easier to say yes to when other people at your table have kept her so busy she's sweating a little. It was super hot; when she touched her forehead to mine I could feel the heat and moisture, and each time she turned around I could see the glow from the heat on her. She was literally hot. This is only the second time I've been there, but yeah, P10 has the hottest strippers in Austin. Good variety, too.

But we wanted to continue with our night so it was on to Sugar's, where I ran into an old Show Palace employee, one of my favorites ever. I wish I'd had more of a chance to catch up with him, but he's a manager or VIP host or something there now, so was busy. We didn't have nearly as much fun there as absolutely no dancers approached us, and the crowd was way, way young and fake-thuggy. Superloud music and an overload of strobe lights kicked my ass. Sugar's used to be the classiest ass joint in town, full of your more coveted older and tech-industry demo, but no more. Hell, the first time I went there, when I received my first ever lap dance as a customer, the dancers had to ask management for permission to dance for a woman. This time a stripper tried to unleash my boobs when I tipped her, and I stopped her hand, saying, "That's all right, honey, you're the show," and thinking "Don't show them my boobs! I'm not at work! These breasts are on vacation until Sunday!"

Didn't stay there for long. Lost some of the group from P10, picked up another. Headed to the Yellow Rose and I fell in love with a gorgeous African American former ballerina who moved as beautifully as any dancer I've ever seen. Oh, she was so graceful! She even clapped her ass elegantly. Sigh. I had a couple of dances from her, and it was close to closing, so I sent her over to Mr. W. While she danced for him I talked with Studious Stripper, and after his dance he said, "It's funny, I was watching every move when she was dancing with you, and you, it's like, old hat and you talk to your friend!"
"Oh, god, I'm so sorry! Did you want me to watch? I didn't want to interfere with your enjoyment!"
"No, that's fine, you're just a lot more acculturated than I am."

Oh, hey, look! Now one of us is on stage! Swinger Stripper, who fortunately worked at the club we were visting, talked the DJ into letting her hop up for a guest set, where we threw our money at her and enjoyed her drunken, barefoot antics and polework.

"This is what guys think being married to a stripper is like all the time."
"What, we hang out with a bunch of hot women and sometimes spontaneously get naked?"
"Yeah, all the time."

Well, nah. And I have known nonstrippers to exhibit this kind of behavior, too (see your local Burning Man community for more). I just have to get it out of my system once or twice a year, preferably between Christmas and New Year's. This was year two and I am all about making T-shirts for year three. It's a hell of a lot more relaxing than intergenerational holiday parties where I get to tell people what I do for a living, heh.