The Night I Got Thrown Out Of A Strip Club.

“OK, I’m back. And I brought my friend.”

“I can see that.”

“So are you ready for the both of us?”

This took place in June of 2001. (I am pretty sure.)

Bachelor parties hardly ever go according to plan. Despite weeks of blueprinting, something inevitably goes awry.

First, the party bus is always late. Bachelor and bachelorette parties keep most limousine companies in business by renting small party buses – usually ones equipped with a bathroom at the back. For a myriad of reasons, the party bus never gets there on time – usually due to poor directions. It is not normally much of a problem since pickup spots tend to be a house stocked with lots of beer and alcohol or a bar, which (hopefully) is stocked with lots of beer and alcohol. So everyone just gets drunker while they wait for the driver – usually with the assistance of the best man on his cell phone standing on the sidewalk saying things like, “NO! You make a RIGHT after you get off the highway. Why in the world would you go LEFT? Can you even MAKE a left there?” (At this point he covers the phone, turns to the guy next to him and says something like, “Dude, this guy is an idiot. We are going to end up in fucking Delaware tonight.”)

Second, because bachelor parties tend to bring ALL of a guy’s friends together, the group tends to be split into two factions. Some guys – usually the married ones with kids –want to go out, get bombed with their buddies and not (for just one night) have to worry about changing diapers and taking out the trash. Other guys – usually the single ones – want to go out, get bombed, try to hook up with every girl within 20 feet and eventually (due to a steady eight-hour stream of alcohol) convince themselves that, in the morning, they will roll over in their bed to find a stripper or two. That last part never happens but it is not for a lack of trying. Everyone does get extremely drunk, though, which always make the night at least half of a success and that is not a bad thing. No matter how you look at it. The conflicting agendas inevitably spawn a debate – usually by the third bar – about changing the plans to suit everyone’s new vision of the night. This new vision of the night is created – or fabricated is a better term – from a bunch of drunken guys sitting around talking and spouting nonsense. New bars are brought up as places that “we have got to go to.” A new strip club is proposed because the girls are “way fucking crazier there.” This discussion is usually about as productive as a congressional hearing. The plan never gets altered – for better or for worse.

Third, there are always guys who cry poverty about two hours into the night. These are the guys who – after claiming they are out of money – seem to magically show up with a fresh beer in their hand every fifteen minutes, claiming “Jimmy” or “Ralph” bought them a beer. You are not out with a “Jimmy” or a “Ralph.” Everyone is too drunk to care at this point, however, so the infraction goes overlooked. As a result of these cheap-asses being tightwads, the rest of the group has to pick up the slack. What sucks even worse is that the end of the night – the strip bar portion – is easily the most wallet-draining two hours due to the fact that you have to pay for the bachelor’s lap dances and strip clubs charge roughly $29 per bottle of domestic beer. They know they can charge that much. So they do.

As a rule, I dislike bachelor parties. I am not a huge fan of organized going-out to begin with, preferring to just leave my house with a destination in mind and seeing what happens. It is a formula that has always worked for me and I see no reason – at this point in the game – to tinker with something that doesn’t need fixing. In addition, I generally steer clear of large groups – meaning over 5 people. A larger group makes everything so cumbersome. Waiting for people to go to the bathroom, settle their tabs or do “just one more round of shots, dude,” can make exiting a bar happen at the same speed as an elementary school fire drill.

Also, I am not a big fan of the whole stripper thing. Now, don’t get me wrong. I like naked women as much as the next heterosexual guy but I hate the idea of paying to get a girl naked. It is so much more satisfying – and exciting, in my opinion – to go out to a regular bar and try to get a girl to go home with me. When I walk into a strip bar, seeing all the strippers already half-naked fills me with a sort of disappointment. It is not that I mind that they are half-naked. I just don’t feel any sense of accomplishment, having had nothing to do with having gotten them that way. As a result of this feeling of disappointment, I talk to strippers too much. I feel the need to make up for lost time, like if I talk to them, and get them to like me as a person; the proceeding lap dance will make me feel in some way that I earned this girl’s attention. I am sure that is great fodder for all of you psychologists and ex-girlfriends out there. You are welcome.

About six or seven years ago, it seemed like every week one of my friends from college was getting married. This meant lots of bachelor parties. It also meant spending a lot of money that I didn’t have. I was not a young professional like most of my friends. I did not own a home – I barely owned my car. Preferring to take the scenic route through college, I was still a student well into my mid-twenties. I made good money as a waiter but not the kind of money that my friends earned. But I tried to keep up with them and, in doing so, always ended up spending much more money than I promised my then-girlfriend, who basically supported me back in those days.

When I look back on all of those bachelor parties, there is always one that epitomizes how the perfectly laid plans can sometimes go totally wrong.

Here is what happened.

After Mapquest turned a 20-30 minute drive into an hour-long sojourn through the heart of South Jersey, we arrived at Griff’s place. Griff was our friend from college. He was not a member of the “inner circle” (he had his own “inner circle”) but he was definitely on the outer rim, and so DaMan and I decided to attend his bachelor party.

Once we got there, some facts came to light that made us question our involvement in the evening. (1) The best man was nowhere to be found and never did show up, prompting Spence, one of the groomsmen, to step in as “interim best man.” (2) After already downing about five beers and a couple shots of Jack Daniels, one of my buddies informed me that I was, in fact, not invited to the upcoming wedding. At that point – if I had wanted to – I was unable to drive home. (3) Most of my close friends were not coming to the bachelor party – for one reason or another – which, at one point, made me loudly declare that I needed to “keep in better touch with those assholes.” My lack of communication with my college friends had finally fucked me over.

DaMan and I consulted with each other on our options. We could drive home (maybe) but we really couldn’t come up with a believable excuse for both of us have to leave. No – we were going to have let this one play out.

We had no choice but to get on the party bus, which – of course – got there an hour late.

We went to the three non-strip bars and drank quite a bit. Beers. Shots. More beers. Even more shots. I was always of the opinion that there was no fucked-up night that Miller Lite and Jack Daniels couldn’t fix. And I was normally right. Normally.

By the time the party bus pulled up to Delilah’s Den, I had a small problem. My $200 allowance for the night was down to $0 and we hadn’t even walked into the strip club yet. I had my ATM card. It wasn’t like my girlfriend had given me $200 and sent me on my way. $200 was just our agreed-upon sum for the night. And it should have been enough. But it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

So there we were – ready to enter Delilah’s Den, considered to be the strip club in Philadelphia. If you were a guy who took his naked dancing girls seriously, then you had no choice but to go to Delilah’s. I had never been there – probably because I was not as no-nonsense about my naked dancing girls as some guys.

I had to make a decision. With no money in my pocket, was I going to call it a night or was I going to hit the ATM? If I called it a night, I could take a cab home, get home at a decent hour and curl up in bed with my girlfriend. If I hit the ATM, I was going to spend more money and pretty much guarantee myself a few nights on the couch. I presented these options to DaMan. He rolled his eyes and held up his hands. No help.

I hit the ATM for $200. My girlfriend’s couch was reasonably comfortable and I figured I was only going to live once (pretty sure). DaMan and I entered Delilah’s with a renewed sense of purpose. We headed to the bar. Spence stopped us five feet later. Spence was put in charge of the night after we found out the best man was sleeping off a 24-hour bender he wisely went on the night before his best friend’s bachelor party.

“Guys, you got money for the lap dances?” “Sure, how much?” “Well, there’s a problem…” “Let me guess, none of your friends has money to pay for Griff’s shit, right?” “Right, they are broke.” I looked over at the friends. “They all have beers in their hands.” “Yeah, but they don’t have a lot of money.” “What makes you think we do?” “You guys don’t have any…?” “No, we have money but this is bullshit, Spence, and you know it.”

In his defense, Spence was stuck in the middle of a bad situation. He didn’t want to be the guy to corral all of these drunkards all night. But there he was – leader of the drunken brigade of idiots. I felt bad for him because, unlike the sleepy best man, I genuinely liked Spence.

“I know its bullshit, but there is really no other way unless…” “Dude, don’t worry, we’re going to help out. How much do you need?” “Like $170 apiece.” “Are you fucking kidding me? How many other people are putting in?” DaMan looked over at the both of us. “Dude, this is fucking bullshit. We’re not even invited to the wedding.” “What he said.” “Guys, listen, if there was any other way, I would have figured something out by now. There’s no other option.” I reached into my pocket. “I better be going straight to fucking heaven when I die. This better earn me some major fucking points.” We both handed him $170.

After the fleecing, DaMan and I sat down on a velvety purple couch. “This might be the worst bachelor party of all time.” “Yeah, but only for us. Griff seems to be having a good time.” “How much money do you have left?” “Thirty bucks. And I can’t take anymore out. I am at my 24 hour limit, plus Katie would fucking kill me. How much you got?” “About seventy. And I am not hitting the ATM again. I am not dropping another dime into this debacle.” “We are kind of screwed. You feel like taking a cab back to our place? We got plenty of booze and weed there. We could just get more fucked up and forget we were ever here.” “How much is a cab going to cost back to Ardmore?” “From here? About forty bucks, probably.” “Sounds good.” “All right well lets have a beer and look at some naked women before we go.” “Agreed. I’m going to take a piss.”

After DaMan got up to go to the bathroom, I found a waitress and ordered two beers. She came back within what felt like seconds and asked me for $10. I handed it to her and thought, “That’s it – I’m tapped out. Fuck.” I needed to save $20 for the cab ride home.

I sat and stared at my beer. I felt someone standing above me. I moved my eyes upward. I was – but shouldn’t have been – surprised to see a short brunette with bright blue eyes and a great smile standing in front of me wearing not much of anything at all. “Hi, how are you tonight?” “I’m alright, kind of a rough one, though.” “Want to go in the back and you can tell me all about it?” “Well, maybe later OK? Let’s see if I get into a better mood.” “OK, sugar, I’ll be back.”

DaMan came back from the bathroom as the brunette walked away. I handed him his beer. “Dude, you going to get a lap dance from her? She’s fucking hot.” “I have twenty bucks left and we need that for the cab.” “Speaking of which, you want to down these and get the fuck out of here?” “Yeah, but you still owe me a beer.” “Fine. After that – we are out of here.” Fine.” We sat and watched the girl on the stage dancing to “Me So Horny.”

She came back. The short brunette with the eyes and the smile. “In a better mood yet?” I pointed to my beer. “Getting there. These help.” She laughed. “You are funny – and kind of cute.” “Just kind of?” “Well, no…I guess you are all-the-way cute.” “Well so are you.” “Aw, you’re a sweetheart. Do you wanna go in the back with me?” “Well, see, there’s a problem with that…”

I should have told her that I didn’t have the money. I should have but I didn’t.

“I have kind of a quirky thing about…you know…going back there.” “Well, what is it?” I looked up and smiled at her, “I don’t know if I can trust you with it.” She sat down next to me and put her hand on my knee. “You can trust me with anything, babe.” I looked at DaMan. He rolled his eyes and shook his head – a smile on his face. “Well, the only way I like to go…back there…is to be with more than one girl. Is that a big deal?” “What? Are you kidding me? We do that all of the time. But it is Saturday night; it might be hard to find another available girl.” “Well, there’s the thing. I don’t want it to be just ‘another available girl.’ I would like her to look like you – a cute brunette.” She seemed discouraged but pleased that I called her “a cute brunette.” “OK, well, if I can swing it I will be back, OK, cutie?” “I will be here.” She walked back into the crowd.

“What the fuck are you doing?” “Having fun. What are you doing?” “Watching some asshole fuck with a stripper.” “Calm down, boy scout. She won’t be back. Did you hear the circumstances I laid out for her? Let’s get that beer.”

Ten minutes later, we were drinking our second beer and planning our exit. We decided that just walking out the front door and leaving would be the best course of action. No one would need to know what happened to us. DaMan and I did that kind of thing quite often. It was our preferred party departure strategy.

“OK, I am back. And I brought my friend.” “I can see that.” “So are you ready for the both of us?” To put it mildly, DaMan seemed more than a little annoyed. “Yeah, I guess. What are your names?” “I am Gretchen and this is Justine.” “Hi, I am Josh, nice to meet you, Justine.” She was – indeed – a cute brunette. She had a terrific smile. “So are you ready?” “Yeah, but are you sure this isn’t weird?” “No, not at all, Josh, we do this kind of thing all of the time.” “How many times have done this before?” “About one thousand more times than you have.” “Oh, I don’t know about that. I do this a lot.” The three of us started laughing. DaMan looked like he couldn’t figure out which one of us to kill first. I was pretty sure he would start with me.

“OK, Josh, seriously, our bosses are going to start getting annoyed. Let’s go in the back.” “Aw, I wish I could.” “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s kind of embarrassing.” “What is it?” And then I said it, “I don’t have any money.” I immediately wished I hadn’t.

The music didn’t stop but I felt like it did. I might as well of just told both these women that both their parents just died – and I burned down both of their houses. They were pissed. They cursed. Hands were placed on hips. Yelling ensued. One – Justine, I think – stepped toward me and raised her hand like she was going to slap me. I flinched, which made DaMan laugh as hard as I had ever heard him. The two cute brunette strippers stomped off into the crowd.

I started laughing. DaMan was laughing a little too, “You are a fucking dick.” “I know but what was I going to do?” “You should have just told them the truth from the beginning. Let’s go.” “Hold on. Got a little beer left.” I lifted the bottle up to my mouth. Someone grabbed my shoulders. At first, I thought it was one of my friends. But it wasn’t. I had been grabbed like this before. This was not a friendly grab. I was positive of that fact as I felt the hands go under my arms and pull me up off the couch.

When I regained my footing – on the other side of the couch – I was face-to-face with a huge black man, dressed in all black. Behind me there was a similar man, only he was white. And next to the black man was a white guy in a suit. The manager, I assumed. He got in my face.

“Did you promise two girls a lap dance and then told them you didn’t have any money?” “I never promised I would give them a lap dance; I assumed it would be the other way around.” “Very clever. Did you tell them you would go in the back with them? Yes or no?” “Yeah, I guess – ” And then we were off. We walked swiftly through the crowd. Strike that. The two big bouncers walked swiftly through the crowd. With their assistance, I sort of floated along like Peter Pan.

We got close to the door. The two bouncers didn’t break stride. At the door, they abruptly stopped and let me out – with extreme prejudice. I hit the pavement and rolled – and not gracefully. I was flipping and flopping across the concrete. When I got up, the bouncers were – again – right next to me. They grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me up against the wall. My head hit with a hollow knock. I was blinded by a camera flash. The manager walked up to me, pulled the picture out of the Polaroid and began to shake it. “Your picture will be hanging here for quite some time. Don’t try to come back to Delilah’s anytime soon.”

“Not a problem.” They walked back inside.

A few seconds later, DaMan came strolling out – laughing. I inspected myself for injury to body and clothing. “What the fuck? Why didn’t you do anything?” “Seriously? What was I going to do? Plus, you deserved it. You cost those strippers money. Let’s get a cab.” “They took a Polaroid of me.” “Why did they do that?” “They said I am not allowed back.” “Only you. How do you manage to always get into shit like this?”

I rubbed the back of my head with my hand and pulled it close to my eyes. No blood. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Before you go ahead and judge me, you should know that I am not that guy anymore. I realize that what I did was wrong but I was feeling like I had been wronged. I guess that some part of me felt the need to redirect at someone (or two someones). Immature. I know.

Griff and I are still friends, although maybe not after he reads this. Not being invited to his wedding seemed like a big deal at the time, but it wasn’t. His was simply the first one – in a long line – that I wasn’t invited to for one reason or another. Like I stated above, maturity wasn’t my strong suit. Also, I am not sure Griff even knew everything that happened that night, especially with me getting thrown out. He was busy with his other buddies and some – ahem – other people.

I have been to a few bachelor parties since then and I am happy to report that they all went off without incident – at least on my part. I have never tried to go back to Delilah’s but most people tell me I should have no problem getting back in again, if I ever wished to do so. Because I am not a huge strip club guy, I don’t feel like I will have to put that theory to the test.

At least until I have to go there for more bachelor parties, which as I get older are happening less and less, thankfully.

Tagged: bachelor party, daman, delilah's den, eunejeune, griff, party bus, spence

Posted in: narrative