Saturday, August 30, 2014

Miami With the Goose, Part Two: Rollin' in Da Club

This is Part Two of a story from my next memoir, REQUIEM FOR A VAGABOND, about a weekend I spent in Miami with a Russian stripper of my acquaintance who I originally met in Vodkaberg.

(This happened in June of 2013, before I began my second job in the Kingdom.)

The next day at noon she went home and I swam in the ocean for a while and then had a desperately-needed nap; in the evening I took a taxi and the Goose and her room-mate at a different street full of bars somewhere.
The Goose’s room-mate was nearly as tall as her but a bit slimmer; she had red hair and a kind of air of sad dignity that I liked a lot.
(I wonder if she thought the same about me. It would be nice to think it was an air of sad dignity and not just plain old chronic depression.)
They wanted to go to an American style rock bar, which seemed like the last kind of thing a couple of Russian girls would like – full of pastel shirt wearing fratboys, and some bozos on the stage were doing Bon Jovi and Nickelback covers, not even ironically – but it turned out they liked the food there and we ate burgers and onion rings on the back patio.
The Goose’s roommate was in fact a retired stripper; her boyfriend the policeman gave her enough money to live, although I didn’t quite get why she didn’t live with him. Maybe he was married or something.
She was also an illegal, from somewhere in Siberia, and she asked me a lot of questions about my recent time in Russia.
“I very miss my home country,” she said, sadly and dignified-ly.
I told her more about my life as an itinerant English teacher and I could tell she was charmed.
"You're more interesting than most Americans," she said. 
I explained that I was about to go back to the Kingdom to work and they both suggested that, since I wouldn’t be seeing any girls for a while, we should go to a strip club.
“I’ll take your word for it, you girls know Miami.”
I’d been to a few go-go bars in Bangkok that were fun, but the American strip clubs I’d been to in Memphis and New Orleans were dank and depressing, where not-especially-attractive women wheedled money and drinks from you while most of the men in the audience looked like serial killers in training.
It was always so different in the movies, where gorgeous women twirled acrobatically around poles to cool tunes while well-dressed gangsters and undercover cops made important agreements.
The entrance to the club didn’t inspire much confidence; they busted the guys in front of us for having fake IDs, and actually seemed to take them outside to turn them over to the cop car parked outside. We paid our entrance fee and moved through the dirty curtains.

Inside, gorgeous women twirled acrobatically around poles to cool tunes, while well-dressed gangsters and undercover cops made important agreements.
“Oh my god!” I said. “It’s just like a strip club in a movie!”
“Yeah,” said the room-mate. “I think it was in a couple of movies, actually. BAD BOYS, I think. I like Will Smith.”
We saddled up to the bar and started drinking Patron tequila. I paid for everything.
The women got more and more gorgeous and more and more naked as the evening continued. There were stripper stages all around the floor, all around us, and naked women – who were uniformly beautiful and well-built -- were scrambling up and down brass poles like spider monkeys. Two perfect specimens covered in glowing body-paint did some serious Cirque-Du-Soleil twirling-around-while-hanging-from straps stuff, that led to the floor beneath them being completely covered in cash by the time they were finished. The cool tunes blasted.
And the crowd were nearly as attractive as the strippers, across the spectrum of Miami’s ethnic mix, all shades of well-dressed and smiling men with strippers writhing in their laps or buying drinks for the table or laughing. Even the old guys and the frat boys seemed relatively classy. But maybe that was just the Patron talking.
The room-mate negotiated with a friend of hers to give me a lap-dance, although with the buxom Goose and her room-mate sprawling against me, I hardly felt I lacked contact.
Soon I was on a sofa in a walled-off area, a Ukrainian brunette writhing against me clad only in a g-string.
“Implants?” I asked, rudely.
“Yeah,” she said. “You like them.”
“They are nice,” I said. “The technology on those things has improved a lot.”
She unbuttoned my shirt and kissed my stomach and rubbed her tits against me.
“She said you used to be a teacher.”
“I still am.”
“You taught in Russia?”
“Did you fuck any of your students?”
“Oh, well. Yeah, but it wasn’t like it was a real school. We just taught English.”
“That’s hot. I’d have fucked you if I were your student.”
And then the two songs I’d paid for were finished and she was gone, and I noticed she gave room-mate a kickback from the $50 I’d paid.
I smiled. Everybody had an angle.

At about 2:30am a friend of the Goose – a big cheerful Hispanic guy – was driving us home. I was piled in the backseat with the Room-mate, and she sprawled against me and I put my arms around her.
She leaned her head back and kissed me.
As the big jeep went around a turn, she flopped away from me, and then turned to me and said, “Why do you have your arms around me?” She squinted at me and made a cat-scratching gesture at me.
I smiled and politely moved to the other side of the seat. She soon sprawled against me again, and I kissed her neck and she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed.
Then she looked up, and gagged.
“Uh oh, she’s gonna puke,” I said.
She held her head in her hands and moaned.
The Hispanic guy pulled the car over in a parking lot; she got out and walked around a little, and then said she was fine and got in the car again.
She sprawled into my lap again.
I patted her hair. “It’s okay. Everything will be okay.” She was semi-conscious now and mumbling.
They invited me to go back to their apartment with them, but I just went into my hotel and fell quickly to sleep.
I slept until noon, and lingered on the beach; in the evening I dropped the Goose an SMS asking how they were doing. “We r chillin u want to com watch movie here with us?”
I didn’t, particularly. I felt like I wanted to be by myself.
I took the bus into South Beach. I had a beer at an outdoor cafĂ© and walked around and tried to find places I recognized from MIAMI VICE. I watched the sun go down and had a beer and a club sandwich and fries at an art-deco diner and then walked, hungover and feeling vaguely at peace, among the cheerful crowds of tourists thronging the streets of South Beach, giving way to the various trendies of the evening. They didn’t look nearly as cool as they thought they did, most of them, which comforted me.
Just a middle-age guy taking a walk with his hangover.  


Because the world is ready for stories about me failing to get laid. 

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