I won’t say which one, only...

I won’t say which one, only that it’s one of the smaller Texas branches of this chain establishment. It’s in the middle of nowhere, which is fine for everyone but the girls, who seem to be stuck there in a fashion reminiscent of the Island of Dr Moreau.

While waiting on line to pay the cover fee and enter the club, a wasted stripper stumbled out from the back and drunkenly told some people she would “get to take all their money” if their ID’s turned out to be fake. She was pretty cute compared to the options around her, but had trouble standing up straight.

The manager emerged from the back to examine the ID’s of some college kids. He was a tall, lanky teen wearing his dad’s suit. This would later make so much sense when we discovered that his father was, in fact, owner of the club and also walking around in an awkwardly oversized suit jacket.

Finally inside the club, a few sad men looked to the stage where girls were unenthusiastically shaking (see: twitching) their shit to music by Marilyn Manson and Nine Inch Nails. One guy sat in the corner, giving a creepy massage to a stripper who sat on his lap with a giant frown. He was “that guy” of the night.

We got a lap dance from a cute thick one who’s favorite game seemed to be making people search for her incision scars. I actually couldn’t find them; her surgeon had done a good job. By this time the masseuse/rapist had made his way back to the lap dance room with his favorite stripper, and she was stoically grinding away on his crotch.