Ellington

It was the first time I had ever seen an entire trunk full of beer. I take that back. It was the second time I'd ever seen a trunk full a beer. It was just the first time the beer was all mine and wasn't soon to be implanted into the belly of an undeserving frat boy with a bad haircut and an even worse attitude. The only other time I'd seen that much alcohol in one small space was attending a fraternity party at Ole Miss where the main form of courting behavior began with the sentence, "My daddy owns. …" God, how I used to love a self-centered frat boy.

Ten years ago I had barely finished my freshman year of college when I took my first road trip that included no apparent adults. The trip began with us girls violating several interstate trade laws due to the amount of alcohol we trucked from Mississippi to Florida. Attempting to survive a week in a state not quite as supportive to underage drinking as Mississippi required pre-planning.

One of my friends turned into her mother the second I popped my trunk and two dead hookers, five fifths of Malibu Rum and 14 cases of Bud Light fell out. She always was a good Christian like that. I assuaged her fears by promising we wouldn't drink it all. It was just for emergencies. Fortunately, as she would soon find out, most of my emergencies happened in a bikini on the beach. I began referring to them as "tanning emergencies." She would roll her eyes. I would pop a top. Everyone was happy.

During the six-hour drive to our destination, we amused ourselves by playing Sylvia's "Nobody" on repeat in the tape deck until we began inserting curse words into certain lines to amuse ourselves. Upon arriving in Florida, we tucked into our condo and then tucked into a bottle of rum on the beach. The first days of our trip were filled with regular activities enjoyed by regular girls on a regular jaunt to the beach—Alabama Slammers, puking over the side of open-aired Tiki Bars and chasing the cutest pair of swimming trunks wearing a boy that we could find. Yes, college budgets do buy the booze one can afford to vomit. During the first four days, only one of us got arrested for drinking on the beach, and I had one shopping spree where $300 was accidentally placed on my parent's credit card, after four shots of vodka.

Another night included "The Mother" dragging four inebriated girls from an unnamed condo possibly inhabited by the future owner of the "Girls Gone Wild" franchise. She herded us out of there right after an unknown guy fell through the condo coffee table and peed his pants. I, upset my fun with passed-out men and Sharpie markers was being ruined, immediately replaced her shampoo with Nair and froze her bikini.

Despite the normal pursuits of the previous four days of vacation, the last night of our trip was meant to be something completely different from regular. Wearing our best heels, and using our best fake I.D.s, we 19-year-olds were ready to attempt our first illegal mission to sneak into a male strip show. During our drive into town, it had taken only one of us to notice the board advertising an "all male review" two days a week at the bar right down the road from the condo. It took a quorum of three to decide that one of those nights that week was all ours. There was a God, and he obviously smiled upon Southern Women and their unholy lusts.

After preparing for the night wearing our best "over-21" ensembles and fortifying ourselves with rum and Mountain Dew, we meandered down the street to the club. Upon arriving at the club and seeing 200 other Southern Women whom God obviously also smiled upon standing in front of us in a long line, we realized contingency plans were in order. I jumped into action. Now, there is a lesser known "Ali" that can act. And acting isn't the only talent I exercised to get us into the event. The other was called out and out "lying."

The older women at the front of the line didn't know I don't suffer from a syndrome that required me to pee every 30 minutes. And they surely felt sorry for the young woman jumping up and down in the parking lot complaining loudly that her kidneys would shoot out of her vagina if there wasn't some relief from the agonizing pain in the next five minutes. Turns out vaginally repelled kidneys will get you a place first in line. I hurriedly flashed my fake ID at the bouncer and was the first of 200 women to enter the bar when the front doors opened. A few minutes later, I discovered a friend's "horrible far-sightedness" will get club staff to set up a row of bar stools right in front of the stage for five underage women as well.

Upon my friends' entrance, they were unsurprised to find me lounging front and center on a special row of barstools holding a malt liquor beverage flavored with a cherry Jolly Rancher. Special privileges have always been one of my specialities. They took their chairs, ordered drinks, and The Mother began to ruminate at the horrors about to occur onstage. She likened them to hellfire and screams of restitution and forgiveness. I offered her a pill from my "Calm The Hell Down" bottle and exchanged high fives with some middle-aged women sitting directly behind us—the same ones who had allowed my kidneys a reprieve from violent discharge.

I discussed with them the possibility that the men would get naked and grind on our legs, much to the chagrin of my friends. They supported my unfailing hope as it was obviously their 10th time to this event, and they knew exactly what most of the men where going to do, whom they were going to do it to and how much that would cost.

After a seemingly unending wait, the lights finally dimmed in the house. The five of us leaned in toward one another with bated breath, wondering what influence the next moment would have on our development as females. I tightly grasped my cherry malt liquor drink as Phil Collins began to play in the background and one single spotlight blinked on to reveal a dark man wearing all white slowly unfurling himself to the beginning notes. My mouth dropped open.

"How can I just let you walk away, just let you leave without a trace / When I stand here taking every breath with you, ooh / You're the only one who really knew me at all."

I was astounded. Could it be possible I was about to enjoy my first strip show to the sounds of Phil Collins' "Against All Odds"? I knew in a heartbeat that it was the odds were small. Forgive me for being judgmental of the music to which one chooses to strip; Lord knows I'd often thought Lionel Ritchie's "Hello" would make a perfect soundtrack for removing one's clothing. My hasty judgment was corrected when Phil crooned, "So take a look at me now" and the stripper jerkily removed his entire white Velcro suit. I stood in awe of a naked man in a flesh-colored Speedo gyrating to the sounds of the world's gayest song ever. His slinging hips matched rhythm to Phil's alto as I grasped the leg of the friend closest to me and whispered, "My life just keeps getting better and better." She was The Mother, of course, so she only grimaced and muttered, "Please don't let him come near me." I brazenly waved a dollar in the air.

A few minutes into the show, he twirled off the stage and approached our row. I could lie and say I blushed, but I didn't. Fortified with malt liquor, I more than welcomed the opportunity to become a human Lazy Susan. Please sir, sit on me and spin around. This unadulterated anticipation continued until he jumped in my lap and I gave him a dollar. It was then that I felt supremely cheated and rebuffed. Until this moment I did not comprehend that if one hands a stripper a dollar, they immediately leave your premises. Now, I wish this theory held true with other people one knew. A lot of fights would be avoided in this life if one could simply hand the offender a dollar and say "get out of my face" or rather "get off my face." It was a pity this time it meant the end to a pleasurable experience.

Despite The Mother's hurriedly uttered prayers of deliverance, he attacked her with what I can only characterize as Spanish exuberance. Of all the moments in my life where I wished I had a Polaroid camera, this is the one I curse the most. As she sat there, legs clamped tightly together, eyes wide open and praying for God to strike her with instantaneous blindness, I helped with friendly advice based upon my five minutes of previous experience: "Give him a dollar, and he will leave."

"I don't have a dollar!"

"Well, that's just too bad, isn't it?"

"Give me a dollar!"

"Promise you'll put it in his panties."

"Ali, you are from hell."

"Yes, I know. Promise you'll put it in his panties."

And this is how The Mother came to understand that strippers don't wear anything underneath their panties. And for one single dollar they aren't very shy about peeling them away to provide one with enough room and opportunity to ogle the something covered by nothingness in their panties. I screamed, as good Delta girls are wont to do, "WHOOOOOO." She snatched the dollar waving in my hand for future protection and slapped me violently on the leg.

I decided there wasn't much in this life only costing a dollar that provided this much entertainment. I had cherry-flavored malt liquor, a great tan and a Hispanic man wearing peach panties lying next to me. It was if the heavens opened up at that moment and a contingent of oiled and naked Spanish angels floated down upon us begging for fleshly delights and dollar bills. For a full hour, only one line danced through my head: "Life doesn't get much better than this."

After half a dozen dance numbers that included the obvious policeman, doctor and cowboy, the strippers mingled with the crowd, and several stopped at our stools and attempted to engage us in conversation. I use the term "conversation" loosely as it mostly entailed a back room and several shots that I can't name and surely wouldn't have shared with a mostly naked man going by the moniker "Zeus."

Extricating yourself from an oiled stripper isn't as easy as one may assume; it's like that whole chasing a greased pig thing except they aren't running, you are. It's hard to run when you are wearing nothing but childhood innocence and a halter top with lots of previously unrealized man handles. During the course of the evening while attempting escape from the clutches of shiny-skinned men we hid behind middle-aged women seemingly more than happy to take our place of adoration in the eyes of the males wearing fluorescent Speedos and little else.

The weakest of us wound up passed out on the doormat of the condo two hours later, leaving the rest of us women to throw her over our shoulders and drag her to safety, only stopping to alert the others with cries of "We have a woman down. I repeat, a woman is down. We must regroup and prepare strategies." After pouring her into bed with all the care of a new Latin lover, we all soon followed.

The next morning we awoke with slightly different versions of events and pretty much the same headache. A few hours later we piled in the car and drove home listening to Sylvia and thinking our own thoughts. I was tired and sunburned and felt slightly dirty from all the oiliness of the night before.

Halfway back to Jackson, a car pulled alongside us on the highway and honked the horn. We glanced over warily to see a car full of guys gesturing wildly. Now, the "highway hook-up" has never been something I understood. What did they expect me to do? Pull over and get in the car? Follow them to a deserted rest stop? Sign them my phone number? Those are only three of the possible answers, and as my Mama says, they all lead to certain death and decapitation.

Then one of them held up a cell phone and his wallet. I have no idea what this meant. But since he was so kind as to show me his, I showed him mine. In fact, we all did. All the girls in the car held up their cell phones and wallets. This was the strangest version of "show me yours and I'll show you mine" I've ever played. After all, I'd gotten a better show the night before for a dollar.

After this display one of them opened up their wallet and pulled out a credit card. I realized the Ole Miss frat-boy mating call had traveled southward, and things became much clearer. Just then an overwhelming feeling of nausea came over the women in the car, and we began shouting things like "Oh no, he did not just do that to me" while snapping our fingers and getting all feisty. Then we did the only thing we really could do.

We opened up our wallets and pulled out dollar bills. We hoped this tactic worked as well on males wearing all their clothing as it did to muscular half-naked Hispanics who whisper "Bonita" while gyrating to Phil Collins. The guys stared for a moment, bewildered at our apparent lack of interest in their solvency. After staring for 30 seconds they quickly sped away. Comforted by the knowledge that this whole dollar theory might work on all unwanted advances, we sat back in our chairs and resumed our companionable silence back to Jackson.

Sitting there in the car with my friends—completely silent and satisfied—I realized that life could get much, much better than strippers with luxuriously long locks wearing four inches of Spandex. Life meant moments when it was just friends that mattered. Moments of uncontrollable laughter, of nights spent on the beach speaking about parents getting older and being scared. Moments where sitting silently with an amazing group of women would always prove more interesting than chasing the next pair of swimming trunks wearing a man. Life meant days spent with one another where nothing mattered but being together and understanding what it was like to be a woman—a strong, beautiful young woman who isn't scared, who isn't trapped by what people presume of her and who willingly allows a half-naked man to hump her leg with no aforethought to disease, ridicule or other's ideas about her morals.

After all, it only cost a dollar. We can't really afford not to.

Previous Comments

ID

80267

Comment

Ali, you're a very good story teller and writer. You're crazy, too, but since I'm crazy also, I adore you. You're a bad, bad woman. I'm sending a copy of this to your momma and priest. Maybe you will get some help then.

Author

Ray Carter

Date

2006-08-03T08:43:46-06:00

ID

80268

Comment

What ugly dudes! I think I will throw up now. The women look too sober and lucid to have had any real fun. When is someone going to do something on some real bodies like Tony Braxton, Vivica Foxx, Halle Berry, Beyonce Knowles, or the greatest female entertainer to ever grace the stage or world, Nona Hendrix. She couldn't sang that well (I wasn't listening, only looking), and was a back-up to Patti Labelle, but just existing made my days and nights. What I would give just to see a mere full picture of her again. If were single and got to spend one day with her, I would then be ready for the Lord to call me home. There would be nothing greater to continue living for.

Author

Ray Carter

Date

2006-08-03T16:24:32-06:00

ID

80269

Comment

Ali.........the next trip 'count me in' sounds like a great, wild time!

Author

Katie D

Date

2006-08-03T16:25:54-06:00

ID

80270

Comment

Ali, I remember you now. You're the one sitting on my lap! By the way, would it have killed you to shave those legs?

Author

GLB

Date

2006-08-03T17:15:41-06:00

ID

80271

Comment

I noticed that this photo is the uncensored version! (I'm mildly disturbed that I noticed that this photo is the uncensored version. But he certainly does look like a happy fellow!) Cheers, TH

Author

Tom Head

Date

2006-08-04T06:06:38-06:00

ID

80272

Comment

Ladies if y'all think these ugly dudes are something to look at, what would y'all do if you saw Brian, Adam, William Patrick, Tom Head, and me standing nearly naked and shaking our money-makers? You couldn't stand it! I know you couldn't! Just trying to be real!

Author

Ray Carter

Date

2006-08-04T08:33:35-06:00

ID

80273

Comment

Not to mention Rico and his constant companion "Big Larry"...

Author

Rico

Date

2006-08-04T09:30:29-06:00

ID

80274

Comment

ohmigod, you guys are funny. I dug that picture out of a box. I couldn't believe I still had it. I look SO happy, no? That picture is a little scary. ;)

Author

Lori G

Date

2006-08-04T10:01:17-06:00