It’s 4 am; I smell like stripper. (Edit: I really need to stop writing entries at 4 am.)

The Plan:  Meet my boyfriend at Nick’s around 9-ish, have a few brews before heading across the street to Uncle Fester’s to see my co-worker Cody’s band play.

My Actual Monday Night:  Damon has The Plague and refuses to go out.  I’m already at Nick’s at this point and refuse to waste the night.  I call the other Musketeer: Curtis.  He’s going out for sure, but not until later.

I desperately need a drink,  so I hit up Nick’s, solo, in hopes of some interesting conversation.  Rick, normally a bartender, is off-duty and dressed in a suit coat and garters.  Apparently, this is part of a dress-up, going-away party for another Nick’s waitress.  I sip on my long island in the middle of it and make new friends.   In the midst of this, I am propositioned by a couple to participate in a threesome.  The female was WAY hotter than the male.  I contemplate my sexuality.  I leave.

I meet up with Curtis and Nikhil at Crazy Horse, where I scarf down some cheese fries and a caesar wrap.  We meet co-worker Dave back at Nikhil’s later for more drinking.  We hit up Upstairs, meet up with co-worker Bronson, and play darts.  (Sidebar: Levon Helm (of the Band)’s son is there, I want to drunkenly converse with him, only because his dad’s hung out with Bob Dylan.  Some guy randomly strolls up and talks about how I helped him pick out computer software at Best Buy once, and that he could tell I wore Burberry perfume.  Gross.)

Bronson mentions that we are going to another bar, and when I ask him where, he slyly responds, “The bars out by Bloomington High School South,”  which only means one thing: NIGHTMOVES.   I am sober by this point, but decide to go to quench my own curiosity about strip clubs, even if this is probably the shadiest one I will ever attend.

The strippers were NOT pretty, and looked bored.  I thought I would be more aroused, but I really wasn’t.  Perhaps I related to them, because I know they are poor as fuck, and so am I. (I only agreed to the Stripclub idea if one of the guys would pay for my tab/dollar bills).  Even with a stripper’s head in my crotch (which the guys across the runway commissioned! gross!), all I could think of was, “Wow. I’m just really, really heterosexual. That settles that.”

The whole thing was NOT sexy.  It was hilarious.  I’m glad I went, if just for the entertainment.

But I still smell baby oil, or something.  I was mocking Curtis and telling him the smell was on him, but I’m home alone now and it still smells like baby powder or something.

I’m taking a shower.