The queef story

Soon after my 21st birthday, my brother took me to a San Gabriel Valley strip club called The Other Ball. This place has to be the most upscale nudie bar I’ve ever been to, which means it has all been a downhill experience since then. But really, the women were stunning, and (unlike all my subsequent strip joint experiences) they knew how to dance.

Follow me below the fold for some nasty, nasty fun. (If you are my son, under the age of 18, a family member, a patient, or a hospital administrator, please click here. And no, you can’t go below the fold. No, no, NO.)

Instructional cartoon from this site.

Yeah. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

We’ll get back to the queef story in a moment. Why this is on my mind: my employees are hitting a Medford strip joint this weekend, some place called The Office, where the specialty of the house is — wait for it! — a . . . no, I can’t say it. It’s too derogatory. Even if she is a stripper who trades off her unique physical features, I still can’t say it. She’s vertically challenged, okay? I imagine it’s a real class joint.

Catrina (my office manager, billing gal, surgical scheduler, and do-everything-else-on-occasion person) needed a primer on what happens in strip clubs. First of all, men who are solo look dour, depressed, men in groups act like frat-boy jerks, and women almost always have a good time. Even if you’re a hetero woman, it’s impolite not to tip. The drinks are priced as though they were laced with golden caviar. And that’s the extent of my titty bar knowledge.

In college, I took myself to Big Al’s (pic from this place):

A heroin-thin stripper danced stage left while a faded porno screened stage right. Seconds after I sat down, a black woman in a bikini sat down next to me, introduced herself as Zipporah, and chatted me up. Seconds after that, another bikini-clad woman swung by and asked if I would like to buy Zipporah a drink. Two small glasses of beer later, I was something like $10 or $20 in the hole (yes, yes, an unfortunate phrase), and so busy wondering why this gal had chosen Moses’ wife’s name, I couldn’t appreciate the entertainment. Was she trying to make me comfortable — was it that obvious I was Tribe?

I should mention something: in college, my “mad money” amounted to about $25 a week. I wouldn’t be buying many table dances.

Old Testament name or not, Zipporah didn’t put me at ease. I was too pissed over $5 (or $10, whatever) beer. I didn’t understand the deeper socioeconomic dynamic at play.

I left after the first beer. That second woman kept coming around, asking me to buy Zipporah more drinks. I began to wonder if Zipporah had an alcohol problem, and if so, wouldn’t I be enabling her? It didn’t seem right. I left the joint maybe ten minutes after I had arrived.

I’ve been to a few more since. Senior year of residency, my co-chiefs and I went to another club in San Francisco. Alcohol was had by all, and my pals decided to buy cigars. Even being a little bit close to cigar smoke made me sick, so I went my separate way. I think I ended up back in the club, feeling sorry for myself.

When my brother was about to get married, he asked me to take him to a strip joint as a sort of bachelor party. Pretty pathetic bachelor party, if you ask me. But don’t ask me, since I don’t think I had a bachelor party. Or if I did, Karen was there, and so was Terri Thomas, a classmate who became a pediatrician, and a few of my med school guy friends; we rented one or two porn videos and watched them on TV. They were Hong Kong pornos. I remember the bad guy “torturing” a woman by holding a mouse by its tail over her naked breast. The “torture” part was the mouse’s teensy claws tickling her nipple. Weird.

And while we’re on the subject of movies, take my advice: don’t ever watch the Jessica Lange/Jack Nicholson version of The Postman Always Rings Twice with your mother-in-law. The cunnilingus scene . . . just a bit uncomfortable. But I digress.

So: Brother. Strip club. Impromptu pathetic bachelor party. Some gal was making the rounds, French-kissing guys for five bucks. My brother asked me to donate to the cause.

“That’s disgusting,” I said. “You can’t be serious.”

“No, come on. What’s five bucks?”

He really wanted to do it, so I held a Lincoln over his head, and this gal came over and planted one on him. It was one of those kisses that looked better than it felt: she framed his face with her hands, bent over, gyrated her hips, and sucked his face.

Afterwards, he said it was like licking an ashtray.

I always was the more sensible brother.

***

The Queef Story

My first exposure to the strip club scene, as I’ve said, was The Other Ball. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t a line of lost men, each looking as though his favorite dog had chased an oncoming truck. Three guys caught my attention. They were Asian businessmen, or maybe mafia; two toughs flanking a stone-faced sixtyish guy, all of them in dark gray suits. One woman after another took their turn on the cat walk, baring their all, waving their stuff inches from the Don. They might as well have been selling flies to a pig farmer for all he cared. No one could crack this guy’s icy veneer.

Until the pussy farter.

This woman had such a talented vagina, she could gulp air and poot it out at will. If she slipped a reed up there, she could have played a tune. This was her whole act: dance, dance, dance; pbbbt, pbbbt, pbbbt. Not much of an act, but it was enough to make the Don smile.

Oh, just the barest hint of a smile . . . and then his infinite reserve descended upon him yet again.

Okay. So you had to be there.

It’s kind of like the brick joke: long wind-up for a short pitch. I won’t plague you with it — Karen hates the brick joke.

D.

P.S.: Meeting from hell tomorrow. I may or may not manage a Thirteen.