A girl makes one little post about driving people places, and all of a sudden everyone wants a ride.
C needed a ride to a concert. He likes a band that's older than dirt and had purchased a ticket. Because he is cheap, he didn't want to cough up the $10 fee for parking. I dropped him off into a sea of elderly gentlemen wearing chains attached to their wallets and walkers and women with lipstick climbing up the creases in their faces.
Figuring that an elderly rock band couldn't possibly do more than three songs, I decided to get a drink at a nearby bar. I found a quiet looking nightclub with boarded up windows. Signs outside advertised Live Girls. Perfect. I hate Dead Girls. They smell.
I took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. I avoided eye contact with the man wearing a gold suit and stroking his pubic-like beard at the end of the bar. I also avoided eye contact with the bearded lady who paid for my beer. I played Bejeweled on my phone until I had sufficiently worn down my battery. Then, there was nothing to do but watch the Live Girls.
Some of the Live Girls were clearly not Union Girls. Union Girls get one week a month off, Paid Menstrual Sabatical (PMS). This week is crucial if you are a Live Girl. Strings were flying everywhere. At first, I stared in disbelief. Then, I gagged. The pimp in gold ordered me another beer. I nodded my thanks and settled on my stool.
Sometimes, I think about what my stripper name would be. I think I would like to be Willow Ray or Amaretto or Porsche. These girls had all the typical names. There was Jade and Kashmir and Swallow. I watched attentively. I had a few more beers (the bearded lady was in competition with the pimp), and just when I was getting ready to excuse myself for the restroom, Lactacia came on stage.
Men crowded around the stage like it was a holy site. Curious, I joined them. She was magnificent. Braids. Boots. An a$$ that started in the middle of her back. She could do that thing with her a$$ where her cheeks move independently of one another. I practice that move every day, but Lactacia had it down. Solid. And her breasts...tremendous. I asked the bearded lady for a dollar to tip her.
I approached the stage. Smiled. "I think you're amazing," I said before I realized how creepy it sounded. I held up the dollar. She bent over and took the dollar from my hand with her breasts. My hand was caught between her breasts for a split second. Right before she sprayed me with breast milk.
The men in the club roared. I retched.
I think I am lactose intolerant.