A Night Out
I paid the cab driver seven dollars and we got out. I almost walked into the breast pocket of a tuxedo. I looked up. Inside the tuxedo was a 7 foot tall, 35o lb mass of intimidating, steroid-induced musculature of perhaps Lebanese origin. He looked familiar, I must have seen him in half a dozen movies. Always as a dungeon master, a torturer or an executioner. "Beautiful girls inside!", he grunted in an Australian accent. We followed him to a counter of a shoplot with neon lights that spelled out Showgirls, the world's most famous stripshow.
"That's twelve dollars apiece", grunted Mr. Executioner. "And five dollars each for my fee". I took two tenners from my wallet to pay. " It's daylight robbery!", exclaimed Godfrey. I looked at Mr.Executioner. He stared back with a look that said," I will rip your puny heads off and decorate my 6-year old daughter's room with your lifeless carcasses!" "Right, let's go in chaps!", I said merrily. The girl behind the counter handed us three tickets. One entrance fee all night long read the small print on the ticket. We pushed the door open and went in.
The club was dimly lit and the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke permeated the air. In the middle was a stage. On the stage were six stainless steel poles. Wrapped around one of the poles was a scantily clad brunette.
She was wearing a shocking pink bikini and gyrating seductively around the pole to the rythm of Maniac by Michael Sembello, the undisputed king of strip joint pop. Two caucasian guys were sitting at the stage, at her feet, unblinking. We picked a table away from the stage, but not too far away.
"How you goin?", chirped the waitress. "What would you like to drink?" We ordered three Fosters. "You want to sit at the stage?", she offered. "Nah, we're fine here thanks", I replied.
The waitress brought our Fosters,"You sure you don't want to sit at the stage?" "We're fine thanks".
We drank to the office in KL for sending us here and to our client for agreeing to run our recently produced TV commercial in cinemas. Which explains how a fine example of Muhibbah-ness ended up in a strip joint in King's Cross, Sydney. Godfrey* is Indian, Iskandar* Malay and me, Chinese. All we needed were a few other friends who were Portuguese or Iban or Kadazan. (I refrain from grouping them under "dan lain-lain". None of my Portuguese or Iban or Kadazan friends worth their beer would ever be subjected to being called "dan lain-lain").
*names changed to protect identity of fellow strip joint advocates
The brunette on stage was now pulling on her bra strap. She slid the right side off her shoulder, then the left, not removing her bra immediately but holding it in place with one hand, teasing the blokes at the stage. They stuffed dollar bills into the garter on her thigh to make her take it off completely. I cursed the exchange rate under my breath. Then slowly she "Let's go guys!", Godfrey said suddenly. "Eh, we just got here la!", drawled Iskandar. "But it's boring" "No it isn't!", I interjected.
The brunette was already topless now and on all fours, her bum facing the two blokes. Resting her 36Cs on the floor, she used her two hands to pull at the elastic of her g-string, first to her left and then her right. This brought on a trading frenzy. The two blokes practically fell over each other to hand her dollar bills which she stuffed into the garter. She proceeded to inch her g-string down her thigh, revealing her "Come on la guys, let's go!" It was Godfrey again.
Outside, we flagged down a taxi and told the driver to take us to the Shangri-La Hotel at the Rocks. Godfrey was still going on about how the show was daylight robbery. Iskandar and I were silent. We felt robbed too. Of a fairly decent night out.
We went to our respective rooms in the hotel. I sat on my bed and took out my Marlboros from my shirt pocket. A piece of paper drifted from my pocket onto the floor . I picked it up. It was the ticket with the one entrance fee all night long printed on it. I lit a cigarette, took the phone off the hook and dialled 704. "Hello", a lifeless Iskandar answered on the other side.
I paid the cab driver seven dollars and we got out. I almost walked into the breast pocket of a tuxedo. I looked up. Inside the tuxedo was a 7 foot tall, 35o lb mass of intimidating, steroid-induced musculature of perhaps Lebanese origin. He looked familiar, I must have seen him in half a dozen movies. Always as a dungeon master, a torturer or an executioner. "Beautiful girls inside!", he grunted in an Australian accent. We followed him to a counter of a shoplot with neon lights that spelled out Showgirls, the world's most famous stripshow.
"That's twelve dollars apiece", grunted Mr. Executioner. "And five dollars each for my fee". I took two tenners from my wallet to pay. " It's daylight robbery!", exclaimed Godfrey. I looked at Mr.Executioner. He stared back with a look that said," I will rip your puny heads off and decorate my 6-year old daughter's room with your lifeless carcasses!" "Right, let's go in chaps!", I said merrily. The girl behind the counter handed us three tickets. One entrance fee all night long read the small print on the ticket. We pushed the door open and went in.
The club was dimly lit and the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke permeated the air. In the middle was a stage. On the stage were six stainless steel poles. Wrapped around one of the poles was a scantily clad brunette.
She was wearing a shocking pink bikini and gyrating seductively around the pole to the rythm of Maniac by Michael Sembello, the undisputed king of strip joint pop. Two caucasian guys were sitting at the stage, at her feet, unblinking. We picked a table away from the stage, but not too far away.
"How you goin?", chirped the waitress. "What would you like to drink?" We ordered three Fosters. "You want to sit at the stage?", she offered. "Nah, we're fine here thanks", I replied.
The waitress brought our Fosters,"You sure you don't want to sit at the stage?" "We're fine thanks".
We drank to the office in KL for sending us here and to our client for agreeing to run our recently produced TV commercial in cinemas. Which explains how a fine example of Muhibbah-ness ended up in a strip joint in King's Cross, Sydney. Godfrey* is Indian, Iskandar* Malay and me, Chinese. All we needed were a few other friends who were Portuguese or Iban or Kadazan. (I refrain from grouping them under "dan lain-lain". None of my Portuguese or Iban or Kadazan friends worth their beer would ever be subjected to being called "dan lain-lain").
*names changed to protect identity of fellow strip joint advocates
The brunette on stage was now pulling on her bra strap. She slid the right side off her shoulder, then the left, not removing her bra immediately but holding it in place with one hand, teasing the blokes at the stage. They stuffed dollar bills into the garter on her thigh to make her take it off completely. I cursed the exchange rate under my breath. Then slowly she "Let's go guys!", Godfrey said suddenly. "Eh, we just got here la!", drawled Iskandar. "But it's boring" "No it isn't!", I interjected.
The brunette was already topless now and on all fours, her bum facing the two blokes. Resting her 36Cs on the floor, she used her two hands to pull at the elastic of her g-string, first to her left and then her right. This brought on a trading frenzy. The two blokes practically fell over each other to hand her dollar bills which she stuffed into the garter. She proceeded to inch her g-string down her thigh, revealing her "Come on la guys, let's go!" It was Godfrey again.
Outside, we flagged down a taxi and told the driver to take us to the Shangri-La Hotel at the Rocks. Godfrey was still going on about how the show was daylight robbery. Iskandar and I were silent. We felt robbed too. Of a fairly decent night out.
We went to our respective rooms in the hotel. I sat on my bed and took out my Marlboros from my shirt pocket. A piece of paper drifted from my pocket onto the floor . I picked it up. It was the ticket with the one entrance fee all night long printed on it. I lit a cigarette, took the phone off the hook and dialled 704. "Hello", a lifeless Iskandar answered on the other side.
"It's showtime!", the devil in me said.
posted by stevo at 1:41 AM
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