A Lap Dance Is So Much Better When the Stripper Is Crying

I'm trying to keep some sort of schedule on this whole blogging business.

The boys and I over at Banana Stand Media are in the process of redoing our website. Evan Thompson will be designing it. And as you can see from his page, he's a far, far better designer than I.

The new Banana Stand site is going to be filled with lots of free music, gear-reviews, show info, photos, political rants, and art of all kinds.

So, I should be writing something new to keep up the creative juices following. Eww.

But, I'm not.

Instead, here's a conversation between me and Chris Onstad, who's a far, far funnier man than I.




Chris:

What is a woman's motivation to give a free hand job to a man?

Me:

Maybe you've been dancing for and hour and a half.  Only got $6 in sweaty singles to show for it.  

The place is empty, save the bartender who quit noticing tits three days into the gig, and the old man whose eyes are locked on the video poker machine.

In walks a young man with a kind face and slight build.  You know there's no way he'll rough you up.  No, not like last time . . .

He spends more on tipping your half-assed display than his drink, and doesn't once complain that "She Talks to Angels" by the Black Crowes has played twice in the twenty minutes he's been there.  Doesn't even seem to mind the irony of the lyrics.

So just this one time, you tell him your real name and ask if he wants to sit in a private booth.  Without asking he orders you up a Red Bull Vodka. Your favorite.  How did he know?

The loneliness brings you together for that short moment when his eyes close and roll back and your the only thing in the world he cares about.  The bartender disappears.  The old man and his poker machine fade.  The stage is gone, the booth too. For a moment it's just you and him.  It feels like love.

And yeah, you're pretty sure you'll run into him the next morning outside the Screen Door.  Your mascara gone, the platform shoes traded in for a leash and a pug named Barry.

He doesn't let on about last night.  Doesn't even have that tone of arrogance when speaking to your friend Julie, who, bless her heart, still thinks you're "just a server".

As he waves and walks back toward his friends, you think, maybe next time I'll ask home.  

But what he want with a girl like me?  Just another story for his accountant friends.  A good way to brag between downs while he grabs a beer with friends watching football on Sunday.

And besides, you've got to butter up to the cook for free mimosas.  No time to think about what might have been.

END SCENE