She shakes one wrinkled fist in our direction. Then her poofy-haired companion in the backseat flips us the bird. I’m pretty sure it’s the funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.
The two of us collapse back into our seats, laughing hysterically.
Steven snaps out of his stupor and yells to the driver, “For the love of God, man, floor it!”
We speed off into the night, howling like Mad Hatters on laughing gas. All of us except Steven. You know that saying “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas”? I don’t think my brother-in-law is gonna be that lucky.
The name of the strip club is Paradise. The sand-colored, two-story, windowless building is surrounded with lush trees, stone statues, a pond, and several fountains. The oasislike atmosphere stands out in sharp contrast to the barren desert around it. Even though the sign glows a modern neon, I half expect to see girls in togas, carrying big palm leaves and frigging grapes, wandering around the outside.
We get to the front door. You may want to brace yourself. Don’t want anyone keeling over from the shock. Because, you have to understand—men are essentially pigs in human clothing. I readily admit it. There is no end to the perverted high jinks, fetishes, fortes, and fantasies we’re capable of dreaming up.
And this joint caters to every single one of them.
The door is opened by a fortyish-looking redhead in a dark green teddy with matching heels. She has aristocratic features—pale skin, full lips, high cheekbones—nicely accentuated by expensively subtle plastic surgery. “Welcome to Paradise, gentlemen. We’ve been expecting you.”
Cream-colored walls, marble tile, and a burning white-stone fireplace make the foyer feel welcoming and warm. Almost homey. Deep, sexy music pounds from behind a dark mahogany door on the far side of the room. “My name is Carla; I’ll be your hostess this evening. If there is anything I can get for you during your stay—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Warren’s mouth hangs open—like a fish who’s seen the face of God. Matthew and Jack are giggly with anticipation, while Steven still looks dazed from mooning his grandma.
But I bet he’ll forget all about that shortly. We walk into the next room. The lights are low—as they always are in places like this—but the room is huge for a strip club. A main stage sits in the center, with two smaller stages beside it, each with a standard silver pole. A large glass bar lines one wall, with two bikini-clad dancers swaying on top.
Men of all ages are scattered everywhere—at small tables, corner booths, and bar stools. And every one of them has at least two girls fawning over him. Out of the corner of my eye I see a salt-and-pepper-haired guy motorboating the tits of a blonde with pigtails and a Catholic-schoolgirl uniform. Behind them, a black-haired Asian woman stands naked on a table, sliding a Blow Pop into her twat. Then she leans down and pops it into the mouth of the college-age kid salivating in front of her.
Kind of reminds you of Sodom or Gomorrah, doesn’t it? And we all know how they ended up.
I tried to warn you.
Carla explains, “To the left is our game room. I’ve reserved a poker table for your party as you requested, Matthew. Darts and billiards are also available. Down that hall are the booths for private dances, and upstairs we have fully appointed rooms for even more private interactions, should you desire.”
She leads us to the bar. “First round is on the house. This is Jane.” Carla motions to a dark-haired girl behind the bar, wearing a suit jacket and nothing else. “She’ll be your private server.”
Warren’s eyes follow a long-legged blonde wearing assless leather chaps as she walks by. “I thought it was against the law to have naked girls and alcohol in the same place.”
Matthew shakes his head. “That’s only in New York and Jersey. This is the land of legalized prostitution.”
I hold up a finger. “But all other rules apply. Which means no touching, unless somebody tells you otherwise.”
Warren’s mouth is still hanging open. I close it ungently. “Get a grip, man. Don’t embarrass us or I’ll make you go sit in the car.”
He forces his face to relax. Then he bobs his head and slumps his shoulders. “No, it’s good. I’m cool. I’m . . . holy shit! Do you see that chick with the lollipop?!”
Hopeless.
I turn away. “Jane, I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks, please.”
Service with a smile. “Coming right up, Mr. Evans.”
Carla takes her leave. “I’ll be close by should you need my assistance. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.” As soon as she steps away, five girls converge on us, each more stunning than the next.
I sip my whiskey as one blue-lingerie-clad stripper meets my eyes. “So this is a bachelor party? And you’re the groom?”
I smile. “That’s me.”
“I love grooms.”
Small talk with strippers is not really the norm. Usually it’s more of a transaction: rubbing and gyrating in exchange for a few singles. But this isn’t your typical strip club. And I’m a friendly guy. “How come?”