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Sometime after a show in 2004, I found myself with some freinds in seedy stripclub in Las Vegas. Rumor had it, that the one and only Miss Nude Nevada 2003 was going to be performing that night. Hormones surged through our testerone driven bodies. The feeling was strikingly similar to being 13 years old again and finding yourself with an empty house and your father's massive porn stash. Like any good night out with the boys, alcohol was involved. Alcohol plus pretty girls equals obnoxious chants, whoops and hollars that are as loud as we are drunk. Just as one of my buddies was getting a bit too honest about his encounter with some swamp monster he'd slept with, she appeared. Miss Nude Nevada that is, not the creature from the black lagoon that stuck a finger up my friend's ass. The moment had finally come, and truth be told, I almost did too. The girl knew what she was doing. Upside down, inside out, back and forth, side to side, up the pole, down the pole; if there was an Olympic Gold for hornifying, I was looking at the Gold Medalist. My mouth parched in awe. Dumbfounded shock replaced my earlier brutish barks. My companions, probably noticing my gawking, began to hollar and point at me. "It's his birthday! It's his birthday!" they belted from their inebriated mouths. Of course, it wasn't my birthday, but who was I to argue? Miss Nude Nevada 2003 slithered her way across the stage setting herself in position directly in front of me. She cued me to stand and reached for my pants. With a sexy smirk that had probably been the ruin of many a visitor to the club before me, she unbuckled my belt and I began to get nervous. With one long swipe, my belt came clean off my jeans and she had it swinging by her hand. She then doubled the belt in half and placed it into my hand. "Instead of me spanking you for your birthday, you get to spank me!" The crowd roared in approval. My companions were on their feet screaming, pointing, thanking God, Allah, Moses and even that weird elephant thing Indians pray to for this joyous moment. Grabbing her ankles she positioned herself for the blow. Now let me stop here for just a second and explain the conundrum I was in. I'm drunk. A stripper is bent over in front of me. I'm holding a belt. There's at least three very large club bouncers watching me. How hard do you whip a stripper with a belt? If I give her a little tap, my friends will call me a sissy and never let me live it down. If I smack her with all my might, I risk a face-first introduction to the sidewark courtesy of the club staff that looks as though they have more steroids injected into their asses than Barry Bonds. I decided to err on the side of caution, I drew the belt back and slowly brought it against her skin. The crowd then booed at my sissy swing and it didn't help that the stripper was prompting the crowd to do so with her double thumbs down and mocking facial expressions. So again I swung, this time a tad harder. At least this time had a produced an audible "smack" but to no avail. Booing insued yet again and a third attempt was to take place. Already two strikes against me, I couldn't allow this disapproval to continue. Fuck this stripper bitch. Every unfond memory of women throughout my life raced through my head. Every girl that never answered the phone when I'd call. Every girl that told me "let's just be friends". My ex-girlfriend that cheated on me with my best friend. The socks my grandma got for Christmas when I fucking told her I wanted a Ninja Turtle action figure. It was on. "WHACK!!!!!" Miss Nude Nevada looked back at me and shot me a painful smirk. This smirk is what I imagine a woman would give Richard Pryor if he was doing his act while beating the tar out of her. A long red mark stretched across the stripper's still voluptuous ass. The crowd raged in approval. I had defeated the stripper. This woman has probably been a back-stabbing heart-breaking man-crusher her whole life. With one swing, I had put her in her place. I was a hero. I felt like Rocky.
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