B is for Bloody Stripper

Yes, friends and neighbors, this is a true story, and yes, it involves a real-life bloody stripper.

Let's put on some music... let's see. 311, nope. Three Doors Down, nope. Alice in Chains, Atreyu, Beastie Boys.

Ah, there we go. Look no further. Beastie Boys it is. Kick it! I am most ill at Rhymin and Stealin.

Drink the beer. Now refill. Cue the music. Here goes. (hit the PLAY button, wimp)

My wife tried to tell this story at a recent GNO. That's Girl's Night Out for those of you not down with the lingo. She missed a few key points which I shall now correct.

She left out the police officer, which is the best part if you ask me. I don't know how she forgot that part. And I'm not sure she knows all the cell phone details. I may have left out that part since it involved potential depravity.

She did remember I was covered in stripper blood, though, which is the key point to all this nonsense.

Let's roll back to circa 2004, about two years after I moved out of my house sans wife #1, about a year before I met her most-excellent upgrade. I'm in-between girlfriends, ex-wives, wives, houses, kids, and everything else that goes to shit when you're in the throes of that early-thirties requisite divorce that most of us seem destined to stumble through.

I stumbled through that phase by drinking. Lots of drinking. Dionysus passed out trying to keep up with me, freaking wimp of the Olympians. I ate out my own liver and DRANK it, proving that son-of-a-god Prometheus was an uber-wuss for letting an eagle do that work for him.

One Tuesday night I decided it was go-out time. I ripped off my button-down, picked up a 750ml bottle of flavored rum, and hit the all-nude titty bar, where you bring your own booze, and the girls strip down to nothing but their evil eyes.

She's Crafty, she's got it right... Man I always regret it. Something's going on and I'll probably never get it. And she's just my type! She's CRAFTY!

So I get to the bar and the downstairs is too slow for me. Gals and Guys, downstairs is always lame. Get the special treatment. If you go, go all out. Burn out like a punk. Go upstairs.

I upgraded to the VIP room. Much better. Me and my rum found a table and I grabbed two girlies and beer that's cold.

One girlie kept coming back for more. They do that sometimes. She hit the bottle, got naked, rubbed on me, got dressed, took my money, disappeared for a while, came back, hit the rum, rinse, repeat.

She liked me and said so. They do that sometimes, too. Most of the time, in fact, kiss up for more bucks. This one, though, she liked me. I was wearing slacks and my undershirt, and she kept rubbing on me, grinding, putting her hands under my shirt, doing all those things they aren't supposed to do in those places.

A girl has to have goals, she said, naked, grinding, doing that backward glance over her shoulder from my lap. Man, I love naked women in my lap.

Anyway. She said, A girl has to have goals, and tonight, my goal is to fuck you.

I fully support your goals, I said.

I'm on my period. Something about being on my rag that makes me mad horny. Does that gross you out?

Nope. I got my red wings. Don't ask what that is.

She didn't ask. We drank. She danced. She took my money. We exchanged numbers.

GIRLS! To do the dishes. GIRLS! Two at a time I want GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!

I got into the parking lot and punched in her number and rang her up. Sure enough, the number worked.

Meet me at IHOP, she said. I'm hungry and I need my energy to fuck you.

Which IHOP?

Phone goes dead. Dead as disco. And my mom threw away my best porno mags.

You gotta FIGHT! For your RIGHT! To PAAAAARTY!

So I picked an IHOP. God, I hope this is the right IHOP. I didn't have a car charger for my new phone, and the gods are laughing, all of them, because Lord in Heaven this girl was smoking hot. Jesus is turning His blood to wine to feed the angels as they watch the show unfold.

I stumbled inside the IHOP. I mentioned a 750ml bottle of rum, yes? That bottle was purt near empty, and my stripper and I were the only two partaking. I was tight. She was tight.

I picked a table, and in fact they let me have the run of the place. They fed me. I waited. I paid. I left. Nobody asked. Nobody asked a thing, and for a while I thought they might let me eat for free. I guess I had that look.

Overall, no stripper. Wrong IHOP. I later learned she waited for me at one a few blocks away.

God frowns. Satan laughs. They exchange money, because Satan won that bet playing dirty.

In the parking lot, after I ate, after I drank some coffee and sobered up, I inspected myself and realized my white tee-shirt was streaked with blood.

Stripper blood. From her rag, her period, snail-trailed up and down the front of my shirt, my pants, my crotch, a bone fide CSI blueprint of where she had violated me with her naked, thrusting, grinding, wildly aroused and bleeding vagina. I was lucky the IHOP people didn't call the cops, or if they did, I was lucky I left before the cops arrived.

I got in the car and pointed it northward, back toward home, and concentrated on keeping it between the lines, in this case aimed at the point where the four lines converged.

I exited the tollway, turned onto my street, and in the Wednesday morning hours I fucked up and went 60 in a 45, within sight-distance of my apartment.

Lights spun behind me. A siren chirped. I stopped in the middle of the street because nobody else was out this late, nobody but drunks, thieves, thugs, and cops.

License and registration. Have you been drinking tonight Mr. Trant?

Yessir. All one word, a true Texas yessir.

Honest to God I wasn't afraid of a DUI. Bring it. Please only let me get a DUI. I was covered in blood. I looked like I'd gutted someone, a butcher-esque white boy in a Tahoe at 3AM. They would have spent a week trying to figure out whose blood that was. I was doomed. News at Nine, video of officer beating blood-splattered white boy in Plano, Texas.

That's my apartment up there, I said. I pointed to the stop light, cycling green, yellow, red. I crossed my arms over the bloodstains.

The officer did that flashlight thing, right in my face, my ID, my face, ID, face, ID, as if he couldn't decide much on what else to do.

Face. ID.

Here you go, he said. He handed me my license. Be careful getting home, Mr. Trant, and don't let me catch you again.

Yessir.

At this point, Satan paid God double down, and God laughed, Satan frowned. I'm God's favorite channel, and God never loses, does He. Pay up, you knuckers.

Listen all yall, this is Sabotage!




- Eric