It was April 7, 2002, one of the first Cubs games of the year, and the one guy was my date. I was blonde at the time, and the weather was about as shitty as it could be, even for April. The game was cancelled, naturally, so he and I decided that since we were in the city, we were going to bar hop. We started at Bernie's (his favorite place, which is now all yuppified and therefore not as cool, at least to me), then Cubby Bear, then maybe one other place -- or no, I think we ended up just drinking a ton at those two places, then tooling through The Alley, where he picked out a cool pair of Doc Martens that I bought for myself. (They look like this, except they're gold instead of white. V.v. cool.) So we get back in the car to head home all buzzed up when we decide that "Hey! There's two strip clubs five minutes from my crib. You wanna?"

Some background: As many typical guys, the one guy spent a good portion of his 20s frequenting strip clubs -- not like every night, but you know -- and we would talk about his experiences and stuff. And I, being somewhat curious and not morally offended by the industry as a whole, would always joke that he should take me to one. Now was go time.

We pull up next to Deja-Vu Showgirls, which is part of the chain ("1000s of beautiful girls and three ugly ones") but it's the one in Hammond, not the Lake Station one that's so popular in NWI. It was closed, though, so we went a bit further to Our Dolls, which is in the middle of an industrial complex. There were five cars out front, so we were, like, Ok.

You know those old '50s gangster movies with the dark panelled restaurants with the red booths? Put a black-curtained stage with pole dead center, and you had this joint.

Anyway, we sit down and order a couple beers, and the first girl comes out. She had to have been early to mid 20s, Hispanic and attractive ... on the face. The rest of her? Was built like a middle linebacker. With nipple rings. And I think she was rockin' some sort of face paint like a football fan, if I'm not mistaken. Not an ounce of fat on her, mind you, and certainly talented on the pole, but yeah. Middle linebacker. With nipple rings. Which, you know, hey, if that's your deal, God love you. It just isn't either of ours.

So the next one comes out and starts dancing to "Closer" by NIN. She was the goth of the group: Blonde, fried-out hair, skinny as fuck, heroin-chic makeup (or WAS it chic? Couldn't tell), all black garb. I thought she was worse than the first one -- I don't even think she did any pole tricks and just lied on the ground half-dead -- but the one guy decided this was going to be the chick he was going to tip. He got up, and I'm not sure if he was squicked out because he was with me or if for one brief moment the beer goggles came off, because as he put the buck in her skivvies, I'm quite sure his dick shrivelled back up into his body. The body language was just. that. priceless. I, meanwhile, couldn't get past the stripper shoes. I mean, stilettos? Are hot. Seven, eight inch platform stilettos made out of lucite that could house a fish? Not even remotely. Oh, and ol' Courtney Love-stripper did one better and had the seven-inch stacked-heel black granny boots. To this day, I still don't get the appeal.

The third stripper was petite and Asian and talented on the pole, but other than that, I can't remember anything. The fourth one had that whole "I'm-doing-this-to support-my-kid-or-kids" look about her, even though she was the most attractive of the lot. She, however, thought that "Never made it as a wise man ..." song by Nickelback was a perfectly appropriate song to strip to. It is not, and it was at that point we left. The first thing I said to him when we got out? "Ohmigod, I can't get past the shoes."

So then we decided we were going to hit the Lake Station Deja-Vu for a little classier (!) atmosphere. We got as far as the parking lot. The end.