Sleazy on a Sunday

If you're going to walk into a strip club, the best time would be at around 11PM, on a Saturday night.

But things never work out the way they're supposed to, which is why I found myself sauntering into the Navigator last Sunday night, at 9PM. If I were an Israelite in the days when Christ was alive, I'd probably be buried under a pile of stones right now together with my cohorts. We were the first patrons of the club, and nothing was happening. Well of course nothing was happening! It's frigging 9PM on a Sunday, nothing starts at 9PM on a Sunday.

Then again, it wasn't a best laid plan; it was a spur-of-the-moment, what the hell kind of thing, the kind of crazy idea that gets acted on when you're driving down a lonely road from a popular tavern somewhere in Lapu-lapu. The night is young, spirits are high, company is good.

And so it was that yours truly ended up in a sleazefest. Oh, the men. All of them were writhing in slow motion. Seriously, is slow-motion supposed to be sexy? I was itching to hit the "fast forward" button if there was one, because all of them moooveeed soooo slooowwwlyyy. It was ridiculous. I wanted pole tricks, and action, and props. I got slow motion pelvic thrusts, and Penshoppe briefs, with the occasional cheap scarf. They didn't even bring on the Johnson's baby oil.

Oh, and it was apparently cowboy night, because each and every stripper wore cowboy boots in varying degrees of ugly. And pek-pek shorts (as Sheila Lou calls them). It's a possibility some of those little shorts they were wearing were actually ladies XL; those things were girlier than my shorts.

I spent the night scrutinizing their underwear. A Warren brief would have delighted me no end, but I suppose the boys have a budget for their undies because the cheapest one I saw was Penshoppe - the most expensive, Mossimo. I could be wrong. I saw No Fear undies that could've been fake.

(To be continued)