Big Top Pee Wee

continued from  here

what's under that tent, mister?

Clients:  We need VIP service, because that’s how we roll!
Jack:  We need VIP service, because I need the kind affections of a non-harpy!
Me:  Yay, Boobs!


Bourbon Street:  Welcome to VIP.  The drinks and dances cost more, but the usual bouncer:patrons ratio is reduced down to just these two angry large men watching your every move.
Us:  What a relief.  But is that all?
Bourbon Street:  You can rent a couch for $300.  Only your server will visit.
Clients:  You’re getting warmer.


Us:  The problem with these dancers is that they keep rotating out, just as they’re getting interesting.
Bourbon Street:  You can rent a cooch for $300.
Me:  Is it BOGO day?
Bourbon Street: Only if you brought a coupon.  Ass.
Bourbon Street:  Also, we know you recently returned from Antarctica, and only one nearly naked chick  is probably too many.



Me:  Any limits?
Bourbon Street:  No.  Also, “No” means no.
Dancer:  I am here until Jack’s credit is maxxed out.
Me:  Well OK then!  Hey wait, you’re in my personal space!
Dancer: Exactly.
*drunken groping ensues*
Dancer:  Hey wait, you’re in my personal space!
Me:  You forgot to push my hand away.
Dancer:  Ow, razor burn!
Me:  Sorry.  I’m out of my depth here.
Dancer:  As long as you stay out of mine, nerd.
Me:  Unless you come with instructions, that shouldn’t be a problem.

Epilogue:  Four guys, four strippers.  I was not the only one who did not fuck a stripper (or at least get a bj) in a club that night.  I was the only one who did not ever believe it was a possibility.

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