After the waitress staff at The Cactus Club made my balls bluer than Gonzo's complexion, a trip to Brandi's seemed in line.
My brother was already given a tip back at home that Brandi's had the best strip club west of the Mississippi (does that reference count in Canada)? Anyway, it was something like a bunch of chicks dressed up as Star Wars characters and little cutesy dancing and light saber dueling, all before the red alert siren goes off and the only way to blow up the Death Star was to hook up with the girl next to you. Even without our newfound friends recommendation that we had just met at The Cactus Club, I was ready to roll simply based on the legend of things.
So there we were; about six dudes and three chicks stuffed in a tiny elevator and we were going down to what just could have been my Mecca. Then all of a sudden as the elevator doors opened, some hoochie popped her head out of a door down the hallway and yelled, "What are you doing? Get the hell out of here!" And just like that, before we could even step foot out of the elevator, we were on our way back up. Apparently during the slow season at Brandi's, it's pay for sex night instead of pay for lap dance night. Whoa is me.
Needless to say, I was a bit frustrated. I already had the 3-d glasses in my mind set on high-definition and I wanted to see Princess Leia go down on R2D2. Luckily (which I thought at the time being) one of our newfound friends recommended Number Five Orange (which also happens to be in bum town).
I was already pretty buzzed up from the Cactus Club, so this place could have been in Fallujah and I wouldn't have cared. Next thing I know, five minutes later and two Taxi's, we were all there.
Ok... kind of looks like some scummy New York bar out of "Mean Streets," anyway... We all take a seat and I realized that I didn't have any cash on me, whatever. One of the guys we met earlier just offered to buy me my first lap dance. So after we sent Punky Brewster's red headed mutt of a sister packing, a girl was grabbed for me. She wasn't good looking either, but hey, it was free.
So there I was, in the back of the club on a sticky couch for my very first lap dance. Ludacris was already through his second verse of "Move Bitch" and as I was getting a better look at this chick, I was almost thinking of the same thing and making a beeline for it out of there. Fuck it though, I told myself. Relax. She then straddled me. (And just to let you know, her Hilary Duff "Purity" perfume was not really to my liking.) Still, I then tried to lighten the situation, "So how's school?" I asked. "I don't go to school," she replied. Well I'll be dammed, it really is just a myth. Then, right before I could think of anything else to say, BOOM! AHHH! My face is in the vortex of a motorboat. BOOM FLUB BOOOM BOOM! she pulled away to collect herself. I then shook my head like Sidney Crosby after his second concussion. As I then finally gathered myself, she straddled me again and said those fateful words, "So how do you like my new tits?" Ok, of course I went in for a better look... Oh My God! It was a fresh titty job! Under her left boob was a tiny band-aid on the incision! The song then stopped. "That was kind of short, I can give you another one for free," she added. I could barely murmur a "No thank you," then bolted to the men's restroom.
Right as I got in there (because that is how I roll) I pulled out my purrell and doused myself like Jenna Jameson just got a cream cheese surprise. I mean, my face was littered with purrell, oozing through every orifice - I needed to burn that image off of my face and out of my mind. I then headed directly to the bar.
You have got to be fucking kidding me. All of a sudden my American ATM card didn't work? I then tried the ATM machine: DENIED.
Next thing I knew, the manager had the club bum (yes, really the club bum. I know this because she opened the door for all of us) escort me to the nearest bank ATM. Again: Denied. After tipping her about 94 cents (because that's all that I had) there I sat, very uneasy with the rest of my group.
But I couldn't take it anymore! I needed fresh liquor or a fresh set of titties in my face to erase that experience earlier from my mind. So on the tip from a local, I headed out alone and to the Chinatown District.
Oh my fucking hell. The ATM machine just ate my card. (Mind you I had six more days left to spend in Vancouver.) After dodging bums shooting up heroin in the alley's on my way back (which still haunts me) there I was: back in the strip club with a complementary beer and a feeling of malaise.
We didn't stay around for too much longer, but I'll be goddamned if that wasn't one of the most bunk experiences of my life. After my brother was deported (hey, things could have been worse), a nice Brazilian that I befriended on New Year's Eve, and finally the BLT sushi hostess (mail me if you are interested for the definition) on my last night, Vancouver wasn't all that bad. read more