A Night With The Boys

So the ball-n-chain is away for the weekend, so last night, being Friday and all, I decided to have a night out with the boys. You know, engage in despicable debauchery and wake up the next morning in shame and disgust. This was after an afternoon of trying to find my house from space, so I felt that I deserved some sort of unencumbered fun. Of course, as luck would have it I was miserably hungover from the night before so I remained sleepy the whole evening.

Suffice it to say, the evening in question began by meeting up with Stan and Mick (their names have been changed to protect them from possible Internet scandal) at a wine shop in Gramercy to taste Chianti Classicos, so right off the bat our evening is shaping up to be, um, semi-debaucherous? We did give the snooty sommelier a nasty look when he was being petulant.

We then traveled a few blocks downtown to go to Ye Olde Bar or something like that, one of the oldest bars in the city, where we had burgers and beer and talked about the Pope. We were also the youngest people there. After my meal, I just felt sleepier. So we went to the Flatiron Lounge and drank fruity, overpriced, turn-of-the-century cocktails in a classic 20s New York atmosphere. I spent the entire time ogling one of the waiters without my partners in crime noticing (I think) while we talked about how fruity our drinks were and what a pussy Stan was for not finishing his because it was too strong.

We then cabbed it down to the Lower East side to just miss a band playing at Arlene's Grocery. I felt a little hipper, even though I was wearing a fuchsia gingham shirt. I guess it's OK, because Stan was dressed like a bank teller and Mick looked like he'd been run over by a Kenneth Cole outlet store truck (sorry, dude, I just never liked that sweater; I think it's the collar). We talked about sex while listening to the current band make up for lack of talent and profundity with sound level and guitar rape.

It was then that it began to rain. Physically and metaphorically. That was when Stan decided we needed to go to a strip club. I'm always up for a little whoring with my drinking, but I wasn't about to pay $40 to get into Scores so I could be snubbed by a bunch of strippers I couldn't give a shit about looking at anyway. But I hadn't seen a breast since San Antonio so, of course, I was game. We decided to tourist out and go to where Seventh Avenue meets Broadway.

We told the cabby to take us to "Times Square". Around 43rd St. we told him that was fine. He politely explained to us that Times Square went from 42nd St. up to 47th. "We know," I said indignantly, "we live here."

So the three of us wandered around Times Square for a bit, trying to find the right place to go, while making up our personalities. We were from Dayton, Ohio, in for work. Stan was a QA manager, Mick was a marketing associate (I think) and I was a project manager. I was the married one looking for a good time.

Not sure of where to go, we chose a small gentleman's lounge right off Broadway. (If by "gentleman's lounge you mean "bordello", then yes). It cost us ten bucks apiece to get in. When Mick ordered a whiskey, we were told they only had light beer, juice and soda. Uh-huh. We were three of five men in this place, to about a dozen women. All of whom where aggressive saleswomen as well as aggressive pole dancers, which was amazing because the music was vaguely minimalistic hip-hop and not very danceable. Although I guess straddling a pole and swinging around it with your panties halfway towards your ankles doesn't really require that much rhythm.

I would have gladly taken a lap dance, if only for old times sake (oh Crazy Horse II, how I miss thee!) except they didn't do that. They did, however, give private shows. $100 for 20 minutes. 40% tip to the girl. Unless you wanted full service. Mick told me the word "happy ending" was used when he was being given the gritty details. Well, I don't know about that but I do know that I felt dirty. Very very very dirty. And I've done some dirty things. Hell, a good chunk of the country thinks I do dirty things every day. But this, oh this was new levels of dirty. I didn't even do anything and I felt dirty. And slightly nauseous. When we fled, Stan tried to cover for us saying that I was getting nervous about my wife. Like the hook-- I mean strippers -- cared. Oh Stan. So lovable with his perfect synergy of shame and shamelessness.

We couldn't go home after being that dirty; we had to clean off, physically and metaphorically. So we went to Tonic on Times Square, the saddest bar in the world. It could very well have been smack in the middle of Dayton, OH, thinking it was a trendy New York City bar. We drank watery G&Ts and watched clueless tourists taking pictures of each other wearing last year's guido shirts with disposable cameras. Let me put it this way, the second floor was closed for a private party for the auto show.

I was in bed by 2. After a very hot, very anti-bacterial soapy shower. I haven't had a proper confession in over 5 years but I think it's time to do some penance. Lots and lots of penance.