Friday Night Naked Party

Kacyn leans over to me. “I just saw her rectum,” she says with whiskey breath.
“Rectum?!” I reply, “I think I just saw her cervix!”

It’s Friday night, and we’re at the Cricket Lounge. I glance across the bar just as a dancer bends her head into Robbo’s lap, poking around for a dollar bill. I swig some more Jameson and look around for the cocktail waitress.

It is a certain someone’s special day. His lady has just left for another continent for several weeks, and a big group of us are celebrating his relative freedom with overpriced drinks and lots of titties. The last time I was here, a few years ago, the fully-nude statute in the city of Pittsburgh had not yet been lifted, and so the dancers wore panties and glued-on glitter on their nipples. Not so awkward.

Fast forward to July 2007, and I’m staring directly into some woman’s birth canal. Which, judging by her stretch marks and oversized nipples, had very recently been occupied.

It’s dark enough in here, but the whiskey is clouding my vision. “You have great boobs!” Sasha or Sarah or whatever her name yells to me over the blasting nu-metal as she slides down the pole and holds open her garter for a tip. “Thanks—uh, you do too!” I slur.

I open my wallet to find two crumpled singles where there used to be a fat wad of them. How did that even happen? I can’t be sure, but I realize that means it’s time to go.

Robbo and I walk out the door and weave our way down the sidewalk to the bus stop. My clothing smells strangely like nudity. We have to pool our resources for bus fare.

The lesson? Boobs will empty your wallet, every time.