This One Time in Mexico...

I'm used to smiling and nodding through "amazing" strip club stories. Let me go ahead and clear this up for you, America. Strip clubs in the US fucking suck. You are not impressing me with the time you went to an all nude club, downed your 2 drink Snapple minimum, and dropped a paycheck on a series of 2 minute lap dances.


First off, I just want to go on record saying that I'm not even a fan of strip clubs anyway. I hate the lighting, the music is awful, and the majority of the girls aren't even that attractive. On top of that, you're surrounded by a gaggle of fucking idiots in the audience, and the mascot for the home team is the hustler.


However...In the interest of education, I'm going to explain to you what a real strip club story is...


Nogales...


One of the most dangerous towns on the US-Mexico border...


A decade ago on the Mexican side of Nogales, parties were aplenty for those with the cojones to take their appetite for self destruction down Mexico way. The drinking age was 18, but the bouncers rarely checked for ID. If you weren't 18, you could usually get in with a picture of Andrew Jackson. From foam parties to $10 all you can drink specials, there's very few places that could compare to the thrill of killing brain cells on the border. You never knew whether your night would end in jail, running to the border followed by a mob of angry Mexicans, or carrying a passed out teenage runaway through the border patrol checkpoint.


That was the dance clubs though. The strip clubs were where the action was...


This one time in Mexico, my friend and I were at the strip club enjoying the atmosphere and drinking. A stripper walked straight off the stage, stood on our table, and squatted over his beer until it was buried neck deep in her vagina. She set it down and went back on stage, jumping upside down on the pole by the ceiling, and sliding down to the floor...never breaking eye contact...


As I was at the bar dumping the herp-lager and ordering another round of Dos Equis, I caught another stripper's eyes. She followed me back to the table, unbeknownst to me until I set our beers on the table and pulled my chair out. As soon as my ass hit cushion, a bottle of Patron Anejo was slammed on the table in front of me. I turned to see the stripper holding 2 shot glasses and smiling at me. She poured 2 shots, slid one to my friend, and grabbed the other. She then pushed my chin up with the bottle and poured tequila down my throat as she took her shot.


Soon the bottle was empty, and we were alone at the table. I looked at the stage to see it was the part of the night where all the American female customers in the club were invited on stage to strip for a few songs while their friends and boyfriends threw money, sprayed beer, and fought over who saw whose girlfriend/sister's tits. My friend was in a corner handcuffed to a chair in his boxers with 2 naked women grinding on him. I looked back at the girl at the table with me...


Without saying a word, she grabbed my hand, putting it on under her shirt, and smiled at me. She then stood up, and motioned for me to follow her. We approached a very large bouncer standing rigid with his arms crossed. She whispered something in his ear, and he nodded. She grabbed my hand and led me down a dark hallway filled with numbered rooms. She chose door number 3.


Inside was a completely black room from floor to ceiling with just 1 chair in the center of the room. A faintly lit yellow light bulb protruded from the ceiling directly above the chair. Directly below the chair was a metal bucket. She motioned me to sit in the chair, to which I obliged. She locked the door...


I wish I could tell you this next part of the story was the most epic fuck session I ever had. I even wish I could say I was waterboarded and tortured while the club turned into a Dusk Till Dawn slaughter fest. Real life rarely works out like you'd think though. In real life, tequila sets in. As a side note, people who use alcohol as an excuse for the way they act are borderline fucking retarded. The liquor didn't make me do anything in the story up until this point.


She took off all her clothes, then got on her knees in front of me and slowly started removing my pants and boxers. As she started stroking to get me hard, she bit off the corner of a condom and put it on me. She began to deep throat me as I drunkenly wondered whether or not I was even hard. Whiskey dick is an affliction I was not about to have in front of this girl. I focused every ounce of energy I have on getting hard.


The problem was that I was already hard. After maybe 2 minutes if I'm lucky, I came to the realization that not only was I already hard...but I was about to finish. With the condom on, it took another minute before she realized what happened. At this point she pulled away, looked at the splooge-filled condom, and began to laugh. I attempted to explain that I'm good to go for another round, but she was already putting her clothes on and left the room.


I sat in the room alone for a few minutes trying to piece together what had just happened. I pulled the condom off my now flaccid penis and threw it in the bucket under the chair, which I promptly threw up in. Feeling my second wind, I got dressed and left the room. I walked past the bouncer back into the club to find my friend, but he was nowhere to be found. I asked the bartender if he had seen him and was told he went with one of the waitresses to score some coke down by the railroad tracks.


I waved goodbye to the stripper, who stared at the ground and shyly giggled, and went off into the night to find my friend so we could get back to the US side, get some sleep at a motel, and head back home. I found him beaten and laying in the dirt about a quarter mile down the tracks. His watch and wallet were gone. I stood him up, propped him against my shoulder, and walked him to the border patrol checkpoint, where we declared our citizenship and crossed back into good ol Arizona...


...and that, my friends...is what an average night in a Mexican strip club is like...


About the Author - Brian Penny creates awful music under the name Mr. Versable. He tweets under the name @Versability. He believes in true love[Image], and won't rest until he's found his...oh, and his last blog cost Bank of America a whole lotta dough although not pointing fingers, but the typos weren't his...! Peace and love! haha ;)