Big Top Pee Wee

Bourbon Street Circus

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.

Profile photo of Raoul Duke

Author: Raoul Duke

When I came to, the general back-alley ambiance of the suite was so rotten, so incredibly foul. How long had I been lying there? All these signs of violence. What had happened? There was evidence in this room of excessive consumption of almost every type of drug known to civilized man since 1544 AD. What kind of addict would need all these coconut husks and crushed honeydew rinds? Would the presence of junkies account for all these uneaten french fries? These puddles of glazed ketchup on the bureau? Maybe so. But then why all this booze? And these crude pornographic photos smeared with mustard that had dried to a hard yellow crust? These were not the hoofprints of your average God-fearing junkie. It was too savage. Too aggressive.

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