September 13, 2011 by Manny Wordsmith
So here we are in Frankfurt again…
Strip Clubs. They can teach a man a lot about himself, or nothing at all. It’s a serious vortex of visual stimulation and continuous regurgitating consumption of that fuzzy warm feeling you get when you fall in love. You may see that as a contradiction, but it’s not. It’s just Frankfurt.
I have a lot of stories I can tell, (and I plan on having all of them told through this blog…eventually) but I’ll just start somewhere in the middle…
She punched me in the kidney’s. Don’t worry about reading that sentence twice, It’s true. I somehow made a woman…sorry, a teenager, so angry at me that she not only badgered and harassed me every chance she got, she also gave me a right hook. I didn’t know how to respond at first. I was more surprised than I was angry. Like hearing a younger relative swear for the first time.
“Did he just say mutha fucka?”
It was a dirty hit-and-run. She didn’t make any eye contact, but I knew it was her.
I looked at my two best-friends who stood at the bar just as baffled as me. But they knew the pot was going to boil over eventually.
“That bitch is crazy Usher!”
I hear these things like that from friends all the time. But in the search for meaningless sex and midnight comfort, the marauder is unleashed and nothing else matters but the kill. But what happens when the prey becomes the predator? And I don’t mean like the ones Chris Hanson helped catch. I mean the fast, lean killing machines that sliced, diced and disappeared. Like the one Arnold had to fight after all his token black friends died.
Did you see how big Bill Duke’s gun was?!
I snapped out of my confused dazed and pursued the young lady with no plans. I didn’t know what I was gonna say or do. I caught up with her before she fled down the stairs to the bathroom.
“What’s wrong with you? I did nothing wrong to you at all! Things just didn’t work out and I’m sor…”
Yeah. You will never know what I was about to say, because I was slapped…in the face, hard. Not girl hard. But like, real person, all the weight from the hips hard. If she waited she would have probably heard some form of a sorry. But just like a teenager, she was very impatient.
But again I was left in an awkward situation where I was not really angry, but shocked. Like when your 80-year-old high school librarian farts while you’re walking behind her.
“So that’s what the 1800s smelt like…”
In a mad dash to make sense of what had just happened, my brain handed all the motor movements to my inner darker half. It was weird. It was like I was sitting in the passenger side of my car while I watched an angrier version of myself drive.
He (the darker half) decided that it would be a good idea to pick up a glass candle holder.
“I don’t think this is a good idea” I said, “Maybe we should just calm it down and think about how this could get us in trouble.”
My angrier self didn’t say much back. He snarled a bit, mumbling profanities under his breath, but he never acknowledged my softly stated opinions of his forthcoming actions. He just raised that candle holder like a grenade and bite that invisible pin from the side of it. I was only able to grab the wheel for a second, allowing me to blow out the candle within, right before it left our hands.
Luckliy it didn’t hit the girl…Vicky. I was aiming for her I know that much, but I was never good at baseball, badminton, rock skipping or grenade throwing. And I’m glad. When the candle reached the floor it shattered in hundreds of pieces. The proximity of the candle to Vicky’s head was close enough to make her forget that she had to pee. Immediately after the candle exploded, Vicky did an about-face and came back upstairs, passing by me and giving me the strangest and most fearful look I had ever seen. I had scared the piss out of her, probably literally. I was terrified that a bouncer or bartender had seen it, but none of them did. The only person who saw was the bathroom attendant, who quickly came upstairs and told me,
“It’s not nice to throw things at girls.”
I blame his lack of urgency on our language differences.
But I nodded gently, apologized 15 times, scooped up my buddies and exited the premises.
I was a wreck so we headed to our sanctuary, Lido’s Gentleman’s Club.
I was drunk and remorseful and needed something to get my mind off of my hurt face. Jenny, a blond Brazilian dancer, was finishing up her second dance. This girl was always a joy to see on stage. Just imagine if when a basketball game got boring, the 92′ Bulls Michael Jordan would come in and just clean house. 4th Quarter last 10 minutes style. That was Jenny.
The woman who came after her was Dominican. A spicy, hourglass shaped dancer who didn’t take crap from anyone. She was usually mean and hard to read, but when she saw me she immediately asked me how I was. I blubbered out some of the highlights of my evening and I could see that she wasn’t just a robot dancer there to gobble up everyone’s cash. She was a robot dancer who had some feelings programmed in her so sad guys could believe that for one song, she was a real human being. And that song was “One Sweet Day” by Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men. I sang it from the top of my lungs, serenading Dominican through her whole dance. It was hauntingly beautiful. I had so many mixed feelings when I walked in there. I wanted to fight, cry, hide and just explode. But instead, I took part of in a R-rated version of a Glee episode and lost my voice in the process.
I think there should be more musicals done about strip clubs. And there definitely needs to be some Karaoke/nude girls combo. Japan, get on this!