How’s this for a triple threat: It’s Monday, I have a yeast infection, and it’s my birthday. (Fortunately, I’ve learned how to halt the aging process—I stopped counting at 29!)
Well, believe it or not, that was exactly the story last Monday. I expected to celebrate in the usual way: a few cards from my girlfriends; a chocolate þourless torte from the bakery; and dinner and a movie from hubby Rick (i.e. Denny’s and Double Team—what a romantic!). And of course, just like every year, I figured Rick would ask me to put on the Frederick’s of Hollywood negligee I wore on our wedding night (several sizes ago!), and we’d make no-holds-barred whoopee for about two minutes, the time it takes Rick to fall asleep.
So imagine my surprise when my girlfriends from the catalog sales department tell me they’re taking me to see the Chippendale Dancers at Schweitz’s Bowl! Be still, my racing heart! The Chippendale Dancers are only the sexiest hunks in the Western Hemisphere, rivaled only by Brad on The Young and the Restless and Ridge on The Bold and the Beautiful!
Hmm, maybe this’ll turn out to be a good birthday, after all, I thought. Apparently, though, the entire female population of our town had birthdays that night too, because the place was just packed, and no one had bowling balls! Fortunately, my girlfriends had the foresight to reserve a table, and wonder upon wonders, it was located practically inches from center stage. (I’m lucky if I get seated near the bathroom at most restaurants!)
The Chippendale boys weren’t due on for another hour, so I used my birthday as an excuse to get pretty well gassed, and the gals were all too happy to oblige. I think I had about six Brandy Alexanders (can’t get enough of that ice cream!), each with a whiskey chaser. I don’t think I’d been that plastered since Debra’s shower three years ago!
Finally, at 9:15, the Chippendales came on, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven! All this, and ice cream too! They were all pumped up and bronzed and clad only in G-strings and bow ties (just like when they were on Jenny Jones two weeks before). I swear, there were more buns than a Pillsbury commercial!
One of them, this hot Nordic blond, slid up to our table, all oiled up and grooving to Kool and the Gang’s “Celebration.” Well, Nancy, who’s just recently divorced, called his bluff and stuffed a $10 bill right into his G-string. The whole place roared! Then Pat got up and planted a kiss square on his mouth. That actually made him blush, and I’m sure he’s seen it all! “Girls,” he said, “you’re gonna wear me out!”
He started to return to the main group of dancers, and this Latino guy started to make his rounds before I’d gotten my turn with the Nordic hunk. Before I knew it, I had left my seat and leaped onto the stage, hotly pursuing the stud. A bouncer tried to grab me, but I shook him off with an elbow to his eye socket and a knee to the groin. I don’t know what they put in those Brandy Alexanders, but it sure isn’t like me to dispatch a 200-pound guy like that! (I can’t even climb the rec room steps without getting winded!)
At the rear of the stage, I cornered the Nordic hunk, who kept backing off until he tripped over a lamp cord and crashed into the black velvet curtain. I got on top of him and began to claw away at his G-string. The last thing I remembered, I was vomiting on him. (The Brandy Alexanders were doing the talking at this point!)
When I woke up, I was sprawled across the living-room couch, and Rick was silently organizing his NASCAR die-cast miniatures.
“Well, I hear you had a Þne time last night,” he said, all sarcastic.
Turns out I had passed out cold after vomiting all over that dancer, and our entire group was thrown out of the club. The gals dropped me off on my porch, where Rick found me all laid out at about six in the morning.
Well, my girlfriends still aren’t speaking to me, and Rick now regularly refers to me as the Chippendale Rapist. (I can take it—he’s called me worse!) But I’m not ashamed. I mean, how many gals can truly say they’ve had their night in hunk heaven?
