Death By Lapdance

As anyone who has known me for longer than 48 hours will attest, I’m no amateur titty bar-goer. The better part of my adult life has been spent slouched at a Formica bar counter, head drooping precariously close to a shot of warm Jagermeister and a not-so-full glass of topshelf Bud Light.

Being a cheap fuck, of course, I rarely tip the girls. It’s not that I don’t appreciate how hard they work (pole tricks in platform stilettos is not an easy task, I suspect), but strippers don’t respect a guy who gives them money. Jay once referred to the act of tipping a dancer as “plummeting into the Customer Zone, where pussy is no more.” He’s right, of course – giving money to a dancer eliminates what small chance you had of taking her home and slipping her the hot Greek kielbasa. I’m a devout non-tipper.

But then I met Cheetah’s, Las Vegas.

At an average club, a “lapdance” consists of little more than the girl leaning on your shoulders and occasionally flinging her hair in your face so you accidentally choke on it. Worse yet are the clubs that only allow “table dances”, where, for twenty shekels, a half-drunk, all-bored chick will writhe unenthusiastically five feet away from you. Not so at Cheetah’s.

Jay and I arrived there with intentions of staying briefly – just long enough for a few beers and a couple shots of sweet Mother Jagermeister. Six hours later and $1900 poorer, we dragged ourselves out by our own collars, frightened that we might start bartering vital organs for lapdances. Seriously, I’ve never seen a place like Cheetah’s in my life, and, for the safety of bank account, I’m not sure I want to see another.

The girls at Cheetah’s are relentless. Before you’ve even sat down and enjoyed your first drink, they’re hurtling pussy at you from across the room. The pussies attach to your neck, and you rip at them desperately, trying to peel the motherfucker off before it starts leeching your wallet dry, but to no avail. The pussy has you in its sticky clutches, and no one can save you now.

I was reeled in by more than a few slug taters last night, and it cost me dearly. For the love of God, gentlemen, do not go to Cheetah’s unless you and your ATM card are prepared to be savagely molested by hundreds of filthy, peener-groping, naked sluts.

Make the wise decision. I’m so glad I live 2000 miles from here. Hopefully, I can survive the week. Pray for me.