From: DrD 
Subject: My personal flaying (long)
Tue, 25 Jun 1996 08:14:22 -0700

Synopsis: DrD is dumber than a box of rocks.

This is a rework of a post I sent to Doug Lee about two months ago.  I 
was thinking yesterday and last night about how many of us have been 
pounded recently and came to the conclusion that I'd better post this 
soon or details will be lost.  So this is for Doug, Scott, David, Paul, 
ALS, and all the rest of you virtual acquaintances.  Welcome to my own 
flaying.   All the details--names, places, prejudices, etc. are in this 
fucker.  But to understand it, you need some background.  It might 
explain a bunch of my posts.  But I've got to warn you, this is kind of 
like Arlo Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant.  It takes a while to get around 
to the point.

First, who am I?  A mid 40's guy who grew up way out in the sticks in 
eastern Colorado and lived a rich fantasy life through graduate school.  
Two marriages came and went.  Three great kids with my ex-wife in Oregon. 
 Never went into a strip-club until I was 40, the summer after my second 
marriage ended.  All that you see from here on occurred a couple years 
later.

To start with, her name was Bobbi.  She walked onto the stage one night 
(to AC/DC's Thunderstruck), and I had two involuntary muscle responses.  
My jaw dropped and my cock got hard.  No blood left for my brain.  
Complete, total, instant infatuation.  Tall, dirty-blonde hair, great 
body, tiger tattoo over her left breast.  Eyes that swallowed my soul 
and have never let go.  This would be October, 1994.  The next time I saw 
her in the club, her boyfriend Rob was trying to beat the hell out of her 
for talking to a customer.  He got 86ed.  We got along as customer and 
dancer for a couple months.  Along about December, I'm in another club 
with my buddy Danny, when a guy we know comes over and tells me that 
Bobbi needs to talk to me now.  So, I run on up to the Huddle, and she's 
got loose teeth from where Rob has punched her.  I give her a ride home 
that night, and she scares the shit out of me with a cold psychic 
reading.  A week goes by.  The next Saturday night, her brother brings 
her to work, and she asks if I will take her back home.  "Of course," I 
replied.  When we get back to her place in the projects of Hagerstown, 
MD, I fix her breakfast, look after her daughters, put her to bed, 
telling her that I'm leaving for Oregon to see my kids for Christmas, and 
that I'll call her when I get back.  Called her once from Oregon, and 
blew her mind.  Called when I got back.  She said she quit dancing.  
Feeling somewhat betrayed, I said something like, "Oh, well, call if 
anything changes or if you want to get together."  

Flash forward to May 1995.  Phone rings.  It's Bobbi.  She says she's 
moving to Las Vegas soon, and would like to talk to me before she goes.  
During May and June, I saw her at least every other day.  Long talks, 
getting to know each other.  Sitting on the porch stoop, drinking 
iced tea, relating our pasts, wondering about our futures.  Toward 
the end of June, I took her out to the clubs on her birthday, and in what 
I thought was a compliment, said: "Once you get back into dancing shape, 
you'll put any of these girls to shame."  She took it as an insult.  When 
we got home that night, she said, "I was going to invite you to stay, but 
I don't think that would be a real good idea right now."  She got out of 
the car and walked away.  The next day, as I was helping her move out (to 
her mom's), I see how she had prepared her room for an evening of 
pleasure that I had messed up.  Things cool off for a while, then reheat. 
 But, she's not really making any progress towards moving to Las Vegas.  
Yeah, she moved out of her apartment in the projects, back home with her 
Mom.  Fourth of July weekend we packed up her kids and head off to 
Cunningham Falls (a strange kind of beach in the mountains place north 
of here).  She's really distant, and we don't say more than about twenty 
words the whole time to each other.  When we get back to town, I tell her 
that since she's moving this week, this will be good bye.

I thought it was.

Fast forward to last October.  I'm sitting at the bar at the Huddle, 
talking to the bartender.  In walks Bobbi and another girl. A year later 
and I'm no smarter--same two muscle groups go berserk.  She asks the 
owner about a job.  He tells her that she could work, but not her friend 
(Passion, cute but heavy).  Let's see.  I hid in the john, then snuck 
back to the pool room.  She caught me coming out.  Me: "I thought you 
moved to Las Vegas."  Her: "No, I couldn't get up the courage to leave 
Rob (abusive boyfriend referred to above)."  Me: "You're back with HIM?" 
 Her: "Yeah."  Me: "Oh.  So did you get the job."  Her: "He said I could 
work, but that Passion couldn't.  Since I don't have a car, I ride with 
her to work."  Me: "Where're you working?"  Her: "Sugarfoots.  You know, 
the basement at Cookies."  Me: "That hole?  Well, maybe I'll get down to 
see you sometime.  It's good to see you though."  Her: "Yeah.  You, too."

By the end of the month, I was a regular at the 'foot.  Hell, I was the 
main support down there.  If there was a night that Bobbi made less than 
$100 from me, I don't remember it.  Wild shit in the club.  Body shots of 
tequila.  Biting each others tongues till the blood runs.  Hot oil rubs. 
 She bleaches herself platinum blonde--everywhere.  I'm fucking 
oblivious.  But I get to be friends with the DJ, and a couple of other 
dancers--Brandi and Sassy.  Bobbi is getting weirder and weirder with the 
other dancers.  I put any rivalry I see down to dancer politics.  One 
night, some of us go out after hours.  Bobbi rides home with Passion.  
Brandi and Sassy invite Mike (the DJ) and I back to their place.  It's a 
dump.  I start washing dishes (I'm really anal about dirty dishes).  
Stories start flying.  I find out how I'm being used.  Don't think much 
about it till Mike chimes in: "She's using you, hard, old man."  Me: 
"Yeah. So?"  Brandi: "She brought Rob to the club Christmas party, when 
everybody expected her to ask you."  Me: "And?"  Brandi:  "Well, I asked 
her why, and she said that she loved Rob.  So I asked her about you, and 
she said 'Steve?  I don't love him, I don't even really like him, but if 
he wants to keep tipping me like that, he'll be MY customer, so stay away 
from him."  I turned to Mike, "She really say that?"  Mike replied, "You 
bet."  Well, this led to a confrontation the next week--I spent my usual 
wad on many women rather than one, and didn't spend the evening staring 
into the lovely Bobbi's eyes.  At closing, I left with Brandi, Sassy, 
etc.  Bobbi follows us to another bar.  She sends Passion in to ask me to 
come outside to talk.  I allow as how I don't really have a lot to say to 
Bobbi.  Passion leaves.  Bobbi storms in.  A lot of yelling from her 
follows.  She calls me shallow.  Bobbi is out the door--her behavior also 
gets her fired, as it was the last straw for the manager.  I'm free (I 
think) of her now.  Her only legacies are a cat named Kootchie and a much 
more scarred heart.  I owe Brandi big time for revealing to me what I 
should have been smart enough to figure out for myself.

The last I heard, Bobbi was pregnant with Rob's child, and the baby's 
due in August (you do the arithmetic).  They deserve each other.  I 
wanted her to be what she was not.  Never ask that of anyone.

Is there a lesson in all this?  I don't really know.  All I know is that 
when people talk about the "real" world as opposed to the world of 
strip-clubs, they are missing the point.  It is as real as you make it.