This is a story that, while it shouldn’t always bring a smile to my face whenever I think about it, it does. It is a story about the days that every male fondly enjoys – the days when he was young dumb and full of cum. Like most other men of their late teenager age, I spent much of my day’s back then hanging out with friends, joking and laughing and overall having a good time. Such a good time in fact, that on most occasions, like when I should have been up in my dorm room study for the next days history, math, or chemistry exam, I was out getting shit faced with my friends or being irresponsible in other ways.
The year was 1959 and I was out celebrating the death of my best friend Jimmy. Jimmy and I had been best friends since our freshman year of high school when we - before we were old enough to know how the “game” worked - tromped up and down our local neighborhoods chasing girls and after we were old enough, we spent our nights trying to woo the school cheerleaders; the hottie on the debate club, or some random girl that we would meet in the hallway into a romantic drive up to lookout point. Our advances were often met with the usual “I don’t think so,” but every so often one of us would be charming enough to get some special lady to take the drive, in which case the night most likely ended with a slap in the face or a knee to the grown.
Back to this “death” celebration, it isn’t what you think. One night as Jimmy was up at lookout point and as he leaned in to kiss the girl he was with, instead of getting a knee to the grown - as was usually the case - he instead got a kiss back – this was really unprecedented territory for him. As it turned out the girl he was with was very fond of Jimmy and he was very found or her, and, well, to make a long story short, they ended up getting engaged.
This is what brought Jimmy and me to the “Bottoms Up” strip club, as we bid farewell to Jimmy the man and welcomed into the world Jimmy the husband, where life would never to be the same, a world where if you were not dying you were now well on your way.
What I didn’t think about before I planned this little excursion was where in the country we where – Southern Wyoming. For those who have never been to Wyoming, it is a rugged, harsh land where the men are real men, and, well, the women are too. This was a fact that I had completely failed to take into consideration until the first stripper walked on stage. Besides the noticeable lean with which she walked there was something not quite right about her and which spoke volumes about how the women in this part of the country have it rough and can’t help but show their wear and tear. Then there was the dancing – lord help us. It was like watching an epileptic cat having a seizure right there on the dance floor. With her eyes rolled back inside of her head and her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth I would have thought she had died if wasn’t for the sporadic jerking in between periods of absolute stillness.
The next stripper was perfect in every way. She was in her late twenties, slim with nice curves and perfectly shaped breasts and beautiful long brown hair that went down all the way to the small in her back. She was truly a work of art – black eye and all – that was, until she smiled.
I can only imagine what she must have thought of me the first time she saw me sitting there drooling like a leaky faucet. The expression on my face, I imagine, consisted of crossed eyes and a glazed over stare which signaled that I was no long present but drifting in my own little world, living out a fantasy that - for the sake of our PG-13 readers - can best be described as “graphic.”
I only came too as her performance came to a close and as the announcer said: “Give it up for Tristy, wow!” As she walked off stage I noticed that she looked back over her shoulder at me and winked.
It was an hour later as Jimmy was singing pirate songs with the bum that was sitting next to him – the one that had fallen asleep into his bowl of peanuts not half an hour before – that I got our stuff together and start to get up and leave, dragging Jimmy behind me as he asked hostesses and strippers alike if they wanted to “walk the plank.”
“Leaving so soon?” A voice asked as I was attempting to prevent Jimmy from climbing onto the bar to make a toast to his fellow drunkards.
Standing there before me was Tristy. She was wearing 3-inch platform shoes, which made her seem taller than I was, and a two-peace red bathing suite, which was two sizes to small for her, and an ear-to-ear smile, which revealed two missing front teeth.
That is how I met my first wife.
The year was 1959 and I was out celebrating the death of my best friend Jimmy. Jimmy and I had been best friends since our freshman year of high school when we - before we were old enough to know how the “game” worked - tromped up and down our local neighborhoods chasing girls and after we were old enough, we spent our nights trying to woo the school cheerleaders; the hottie on the debate club, or some random girl that we would meet in the hallway into a romantic drive up to lookout point. Our advances were often met with the usual “I don’t think so,” but every so often one of us would be charming enough to get some special lady to take the drive, in which case the night most likely ended with a slap in the face or a knee to the grown.
Back to this “death” celebration, it isn’t what you think. One night as Jimmy was up at lookout point and as he leaned in to kiss the girl he was with, instead of getting a knee to the grown - as was usually the case - he instead got a kiss back – this was really unprecedented territory for him. As it turned out the girl he was with was very fond of Jimmy and he was very found or her, and, well, to make a long story short, they ended up getting engaged.
This is what brought Jimmy and me to the “Bottoms Up” strip club, as we bid farewell to Jimmy the man and welcomed into the world Jimmy the husband, where life would never to be the same, a world where if you were not dying you were now well on your way.
What I didn’t think about before I planned this little excursion was where in the country we where – Southern Wyoming. For those who have never been to Wyoming, it is a rugged, harsh land where the men are real men, and, well, the women are too. This was a fact that I had completely failed to take into consideration until the first stripper walked on stage. Besides the noticeable lean with which she walked there was something not quite right about her and which spoke volumes about how the women in this part of the country have it rough and can’t help but show their wear and tear. Then there was the dancing – lord help us. It was like watching an epileptic cat having a seizure right there on the dance floor. With her eyes rolled back inside of her head and her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth I would have thought she had died if wasn’t for the sporadic jerking in between periods of absolute stillness.
The next stripper was perfect in every way. She was in her late twenties, slim with nice curves and perfectly shaped breasts and beautiful long brown hair that went down all the way to the small in her back. She was truly a work of art – black eye and all – that was, until she smiled.
I can only imagine what she must have thought of me the first time she saw me sitting there drooling like a leaky faucet. The expression on my face, I imagine, consisted of crossed eyes and a glazed over stare which signaled that I was no long present but drifting in my own little world, living out a fantasy that - for the sake of our PG-13 readers - can best be described as “graphic.”
I only came too as her performance came to a close and as the announcer said: “Give it up for Tristy, wow!” As she walked off stage I noticed that she looked back over her shoulder at me and winked.
It was an hour later as Jimmy was singing pirate songs with the bum that was sitting next to him – the one that had fallen asleep into his bowl of peanuts not half an hour before – that I got our stuff together and start to get up and leave, dragging Jimmy behind me as he asked hostesses and strippers alike if they wanted to “walk the plank.”
“Leaving so soon?” A voice asked as I was attempting to prevent Jimmy from climbing onto the bar to make a toast to his fellow drunkards.
Standing there before me was Tristy. She was wearing 3-inch platform shoes, which made her seem taller than I was, and a two-peace red bathing suite, which was two sizes to small for her, and an ear-to-ear smile, which revealed two missing front teeth.
That is how I met my first wife.
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