I went to visit my friend in Chicago this weekend. He’s a recovering love addict, and he needed the emotional support. Nothing worse than being on the way out of love and having to do it alone. Futile. So I got the honor of sleeping on the couch in his one bedroom apartment. A couch I was all too familiar with from our swingin bachelor days of a couple of years ago when he and my other friend were roommates in New Orleans.
*disclaimer* when I say bachelor I only mean in practice seeing as I did have two successive girlfriends during this time frame.
Those, much like all days past that I’ve spent with my friends, were some of my favorite times. Even though I didn’t realize it at the time I would love to revisit a time when I had friends within a 20 minute drive of me. Our house manifesto represented both the attitude and mood of the house and our mind state
Niggas live here!
Just don’t question it if you know what’s best for you. The upstairs was a two bedroom with a living room and kitchen. And then there was the basement. I use the term basement loosely because since this is New Orleans, which as we all know now is underwater, it was street level. It was just the room under the living area which was upstairs. When they moved in the basement, although housing a double mattress, had obviously been used as a garage by the last tenants. There was a washer and dryer that probably hadn’t worked in some time. There were some old dirtbikes on the walls with no tires. There was some beat up carpet soured with 5 different strands of negro hair because the basement also served as the barbershop since Jared was our community barber. And there were hundreds of little bitty roaches, some dead, some not. I only give you the backdrop because I was reminded by Kibwe about the basement. I won’t get into specifics about went on in the basement. But I will say that I’ve only used Jared’s bed one time for sex. And living with my parents did not afford me many places to do my thing. I believe Dave Chappelle said it best “If a woman would let a man fuck her in a cardboard box he wouldn’t buy a house.” And the best thing about these memories is the sheer audacity of propositioning a girl in the basement.
Saturday night we finally get around to doing something besides sitting around watching the first season of Lost. By the way, that show is so good I got off the train on the way to the airport because I saw a Blockbuster where I could purchase it for the flight back. We scoped the internet for a suitable strip club. We landed on the admiral mostly out of convenience. It was only a short drive from the house and the next closest one we knew of was 45 min away. I was a bit skeptical because the site had nothing but white girls, but I didn’t really feel like spending an hour and a half in the car so we set off for the admiral.
Twenty five dollar entry fee with a one drink minimum to boot. I can handle the one drink since I was planning on having one anyway until we find that there is no liquor. So after we order two 5 dollar cokes we sit back like some gentleman. Not two minutes later the only black stripper we had seen to that point comes over and introduces herself to us. In her mind I’m sure she’s thinking “jackpot” and she was half right, I was looking for the black stripper. But sadly she ran into a nigga with a Kango Slim mentality. I can honestly say we must have been the most interesting people she came across that night. But she was too busy on the grind to care for our wit and charming banter. I don’t even remember what the hell we said to the lady but I do know that several times she challenged whether I was listening to her or not. Then she had the nerve to get defensive because I told her how shitty her club was. The club itself was nice, But the fact that they did not serve alcohol on top of the shitty 80’s rock music and the not so sexy back and forth sway these strippers tried to pass off as dancing made this the shitheel of tittiebars. “See, people come in here expecting it to be like other places they’ve been. But you’re not in Atlanta,or Detroit. This is Chicago. You have to expect something different here.” I could see I was not the first person to complain to her about “The Admiral” because she had apparently given this speech before. Is it so unreasonable of me to expect the stripclubs here to be like the ones everywhere else in the world. She finished off her time with us asking if we wanted a lapdance. I laughed a little bit inside my mouth because I’m fundamentally opposed to lap dances. I tried to let her down easy saying I was not impressed by the quality of lapdance “The Admiral” had to offer. “And what race are these girls?” She asked to which I could only respond true. “So when you go to the stage we’ll see what you got” I said trying to dismiss the idea of getting ten dollars for a dance from me.
All I can say is “Wow.” She had to be the worst stripper ever. I wasn’t so sure this wasn’t her first night. She was by far the worst dancer in there. She started with a very soulless rythmless strut to the main platform. Then proceeded to do a very stiff shimmy shake. Followed by what appeared to be the Robot. Then she did a little butt pop thingy except that she had no ass nor pop. She did a little ass slap thingy and then some other stuff. I had never been so tickled by a strippers poor dancing skills. I must have watched her give 5 people “lapdances” and each time was more amusing because she would do the exact same routine no matter what the song. I mean all the girls were terrible, but she was remarkably bad. None of them ever bothered to do any dancing or step up there tempo beyond snail. But she was fascinatingly bad. And they were indecent enough to make me sit through that sober. Lucky I was in a laughing mood otherwise I might have found a way to get my 25 dollars back.