Grubby at PokerWorks

I found out some things about myself last week.

1) I have a big head that’s disproportionate to my body.
2) I have a fondness for white trash strippers.
3) I haven’t lost my love for playing slot machines.
4) I’m hopelessly late.

I thought I left my apartment with plenty of time to spare, enough time that I thought about checking in online. I think a combination of just missing the express bus, it seemingly hitting stops every block, and just missing the Blue Line to O’Hare had me at the airport before the flight took off but too late to check in.

By not checking in bags, I thought the 40-minute rule would be waived.

I’ve only ever missed one flight before, but it wasn’t for work and didn’t matter as much.

I tried calling and then just texted that I missed the flight and would be on standby for the next one.

Then I headed to the fast food court, feeling like a complete schlub.

I eyed the bar and considered loading up on cocktails, when I heard my name called.

It was a coworker who was on the same trip and had also missed the flight. He said I looked just as downtrodden as he did when he entered the food court.

I felt better that it didn’t happen just to me and we commiserated together while I ate too-salty orange chicken from Manchu Wok.

It wasn’t so much suffering the embarrassment of being late but knowing it would be something I’d have to live down from here on out. Hopefully, this will be the worst thing that happens because normally I consider myself pretty responsible. Later, I heard that my coworkers were on the plane singing songs about me and my coworker missing the flight, as well as another bad-luck grubby story of my car being totalled by a snowplow on a previous work trip.

I suppose it was appropriate that we also missed the return flight, though due to inclement weather than tardiness.

***

It wouldn’t be a casino road trip without a trip to the neighborhood strip club.

We arrived late and ended up with the same cycle of girls (10 o’clock is the magic hour of arrival at a gentlemen’s club), but any time girls are walking around fully nude is a good time.

No alcohol was served, but you could purchase beer on the premises by heading down a long hall which I assume was another building for legal reasons.

The girl who sold paper entry bracelets was the same girl who sold beer.

A six-pack of MGD was only $10, less than the cost of one drink in Las Vegas. I remember paying $25 for two sodas (in plastic cups, no less) at Scores, so this was a bargain.

Behind the counter I could see a game of online poker being played, though didn’t recognize the site.

“You winning?” I asked.

“Always,” she said.

Next time you’re playing online poker, you could literally be playing against a stripper.

At first the girls were reluctant to approach us for dances, preferring to scoop up bills from their three stages, then walk off to a lounge area (to play poker?) that said “Girls Only” with the Spanish translation beneath it.

Before Kayla could walk away, I grabbed her and said that we all were feeling lonely and that we were looking to buy some dances. I also lied and said that one of the people in our group won a big jackpot in the casino, but it would be up to her to find out who. That seemed to perk up some interest, but not enough for her to tell the other girls.

The girls varied widely and had a little bit of something for everyone. Each girl seemed to have her own particular talents onstage. One had guys stand up, removed their belts, and hit their asses with it hard. Another girl took off guys’ baseball caps and placed them around her right breast and wiggled it up and down. Another girl liked to hold her fingers to her nose, stick out her tongue, and playfully blow raspberries. Another girl contorted her legs behind her neck and wobbled around on her back, which reminded me of the chicken lady in Freaks.

I tended to focus on the trailer trash type, for reasons that must harken back to childhood and my first babysitter. Or maybe my cousin who with her trailer trash friend in Northern Virginia, stripped me to my underwear and threw me into the shower (which I admit wasn’t altogether unpleasant).

Or I just might be trailer trash at heart.

A coworker said, “Hey grub, do you like chocolate?”

“Not really,” I said.

“You do like chocolate.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, catching on. “Yes, I do like chocolate.”

I looked around the room but didn’t see who he might be referring to.

A trailer chick dressed in a police uniform sat on my lap and began chatting. I said my name was Steve and that in my younger days I was a professional pole dancer.

“A parole officer?” she said.

“Never mind,” I said.

It was then that Chocolate arrived and took my hand, my coworker having pre-purchased a dance for me. Before my fantasy could start of a fight erupting over me, he threw some bills at the police chick, and suddenly I found myself walking to the back room with both.

Chocolate and the cop put on a show with each sitting on my lap. The cop made a vibrating sound with her tongue, a unique move that I first saw from a girl at Crazy Horse Too in Vegas. I later found out this ability was largely because of her tongue piercing.

I also found out that it isn’t appropriate to slap the girls on the ass. Even if one of those girls slapped the other and invited you to do so.

Chocolate had a jiggly ass, which the cop was jealous of. She said she was too thick herself and demonstrated by trying to wiggle her ass, but I said it was just fine, when I really should have agreed and played into her stripper insecurities.

The second song culminated when both lifted my shirt and bit my nipples, the cop on the right one with the vibrating tongue.

The songs always seem shorter when they’re purchased, and after hugs goodbye, I walked back to my seat to recharge and stare at more naked women.

At one point, the deejay announced it was dollar dance time. All the girls were gathered on one stage, and if you wanted a quick dance, just hold up a dollar bill.

I knew from Little Darlings in Vegas that this can turn on you fast.

And just like musical chairs, in the midst of a dance, the music halted and the deejay yelled to stop, because it was now time for the guy and girl to switch positions. The guy was to now perform a lapdance on the girl, and worse yet, the guy had to remove his shirt.

One coworker was caught in the act. His stripper had already begun unbuttoning his shirt, egging him on.

As he spun around to dance, he accidentally farted on his girl and quickly muttered an apology.

That girl never returned, but I’m sure she had a good story to tell her fellow dancers in the back room.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 6th, 2007 at 2:03 am and is filed under Uncategorized.