Relapse

As I stared into the empty glass, remorse set in.

Not that I would have enough focus to hold onto it though. With the fact that this was, at least, my 11th empty glass, and the obnoxiously loud Lady Gaga pulsating from the, oddly advertised, super surround sound system.

What kind of strip club uses their surround sound system as a major advertising tool? The obvious answer was one that hosted sporting events on their equally awesome HD, 80 inch projection TV. However, the only TV in sight was back behind the bar so Nancy could watch her stories.

Fucking Nancy.

The crow lines that were mapped across her face were currently constructing new avenues as she puffed away on her Marlboro Red cigarette. We met eyes. I signaled for another.

"Name's Stormy! That's my real name too!"

"Just like the weather!" is what I should have said, like the other lost souls in attendance that night that were well versed in the banter between stripper and patron.

"How much for a lap dance?" is actually the sound that eminated from my whiskey soaked lips.

"20, plus tip for one song, 60, plus tip for 3, 150, for a half hour in the VIP room, and 250 for a soak in the hot tub"

I was amazed at how fast she dropped the bullshit self congratulatory name party and started crunching numbers. I was dealing with a pro here. I was also amazed that this club CHARGED YOU $250 to contract STD's that would make Motley Crue gag.

I clumsily rifled through my pockets like a third grader scrounging up the money to purchase baseball cards.

27 dollars.

"That will work, come with me."

I was now being led up the neon lighted stairwell to a chorus of catcalls and "Getcha sum buddies". Stormy had a cheering section. Not exactly sure of their intent, I held my hands in the air and fist pumped to the heavens in victory. Laughter from the patrons soon followed.

She threw me down on a plush chair shaped like a lady's high heel pump. I nearly spilled my drink.

"What happens here, stays here, I do fully nude, you can touch me anywhere, but no insertion."

"Fair enough....." I mumbled.

Before I could collect my thoughts, I was 2 nostrils deep in glitter fueled motorboat. AC/DC's "Highway to Hell" provided the soundtrack for the awkward conversation that soon followed.

"So, how long you been doing this?" I asked as she rested her left breast on my forehead.

"5 months....."

"Cool........you like it?"

"Pays the bills."

She was now upside down with her legs wrapped around my neck.

"I hear that." I said as I sipped from my glass.

Her head rested near my crotch.

"Ooh, what's that?"

"My boner."

As the song ended, she requested one more ass slap and presented me with a final sales pitch presentation on the AIDS soak.

I respectfully declined.

Back downstairs, I continued to stare into my empty glass as remorse set in.