It’s called The Outhouse. The name is fitting. It’s a big shack in the middle of nowhere that looks like a place you’d want to take a shit in the middle of the night. There’s a large man standing outside that makes sure you’re at least 18, but after that there are pretty much no rules.
Sure, there are general societal rules like don’t kill anyone, but as far as general establishment rules, there are none.
First of all, this is something that could only happen in a state like Kansas. Because the club is outside of Lawrence city limits they allow you to bring in your own alcohol. That’s right, for just a $15 admission fee you can go inside and bring all the booze you want inside with you. You may be thinking to yourself, “Self, I’m sure there is some limit on how much alcohol you can bring into this club. I mean, that’s just a lawsuit waiting to happen, especially in a place where the state university literally has signs on the doors to all the classrooms telling students ‘no guns allowed.’” But you would be wrong. There is no pat down and no limit to the amount of booze you can bring into the club with you.
The night started about as expected. I went to the club with my driving buddy Kyle and my friend from Kansas named Kyle, a couple I will henceforth refer to as the two gay fucking Kyles. Once we were seated, a brunette with a pretty good body but was about a decade past her prime and wreaked of desperation came to our table. Of course Kansas Kyle bought a lapdance from her. He claimed it was because he felt bad for her, but I suspect otherwise.
Before we went to the club Kansas Kyle bought a 30 pack of beer and Colorado Kyle and myself split an eight dollar 750 mL bottle of Evan Williams Sour Mash Whiskey (it’s the one in the green bottle). If you’ve never had Evan Williams Sour Mash Whiskey I strongly encourage you to try it. It’s smooth and has almost no bite, which means you can drink it straight. This is what led Colorado Kyle to say after his first sip, “Oh shit. That’s no good.”
TO WIT: You should know that Kyle and I can drink a lot. The last time we went to Mexico we finished a 750 together every night. When we were in Santa Barbara we finished a 750 and then played two rounds of beer pong then took the one liter bottle of vodka for the road. This led to Kyle getting a ticket for open container. We went to Vegas with our friend Dimples and the three of us finished a 1.75 liter of rum our first night there.
Suffice to say, we can handle our alcohol and this was not a particularly remarkable amount.
It wasn’t amateur night like Kansas Kyle suggested it might be, but there were two random girls who decided it would be super fun to strip in the middle of the club for everyone. Then another girl went up onstage and got her top taken off by one of the strippers. She didn’t seem to mind.
Kansas Kyle warned me that he liked to fall in love with a stripper every time he went to the club. I thought he was joking. He was not. He sat around talking to one of the girls and giving her drinks all night like she was the love of his life. I saw him in the back getting a lapdance and he had the biggest shit eating grin I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face in my life. He achieved what I like to call retard happy.
TO WIT: Retard happy is a particular level of happiness that people of normal intelligence rarely, if ever, attain. If you’ve ever known a person with mental retardation, you know how excited they can get over simple things like butterflies or colors or cartoon characters. If you get them really, really happy by doing something like giving them a balloon with a color they’ve never seen or invite their favorite cartoon character to their birthday party, their eyes light up and they smile about as big as their cheeks will allow and they can barely contain themselves. It’s like they’re literally going to explode from happiness. It’s a happiness most of us are too cynical and self conscious to ever have. It is precisely the antithesis or a spoiled rich girl crying because daddy wouldn’t buy her a new Porsche convertible for her 16th birthday.
In between lapdances, Kyle showed us another anomaly of The Outhouse. While at most strip clubs you throw dollar bills on the stage to show the strippers your appreciation. In this club, you lay on your back with a dollar bill in your mouth and let the stripper get it. Sometimes she rubs the crotch of your pants; sometimes she rubs it aggressively; sometimes very aggressively and for quite some time.
I went to the bathroom pretty early in the night and once I broke the seal, I went back about 10 times. On one of my many trips to the bathroom, I noticed that the door was being held shut from inside. Because I had been there at least a couple times before, I knew that it shouldn’t be closed. I alerted the management to the problem, because I figured some guys were doing some freaky down low shit (read: homosexual activity) in the bathroom. It turned out they were actually doing meth. Only in Kansas. Only in Kansas do two rednecks sneak into the bathroom of a strip club to do meth together.
After a bathroom trip I ended up talking to one of the guys who was sitting at a different table. He had taken full advantage of the lack of an alcohol maximum. The man literally brought in a cooler full of liquor. There was tequila, rum, two types of vodka and of course Alize, because strippers love Alize. This was where my night took a turn.
Another fairly universal rule at strip clubs is that you can’t touch the girls. They can touch you, but you cannot touch them. This rule is not in force at The Outhouse. I didn’t realize this at first and generally tried to resist my urges to touch. I resisted while one stripper stuck her hand down the back of my pants and grabbed my bare ass (and she had really long fingernails). I resisted while a stripper sat cowgirl style on my lap rubbed her lips on my ear. I resisted when a stripper stuck her hand down the front of my pants. I resisted when one particularly talented stripper (henceforth PTS) put her mouth on my crotch and moved her tongue so it felt like the stud in her tongue was a cell phone that was vibrating on it.
This rule officially went out the window when PTS grabbed my hand and kept putting it on her right nipple. I still thought it was a little odd until one of the guys at our table came back with one of the girls and was positively groping the shit out of her. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was something else, but at that point I went with it.
Not too long after my epiphany, I saw Colorado Kyle getting a lapdance a few feet away from me. I noticed he’d been there for a while and walked over to him and warned that he might want to wrap it up. He let me know that his lapdance was free. Apparently the stripper didn’t realize that the dance had been for free and promptly asked him for $60. To that, Kyle responded that he would not be paying. The management was informed and a discussion ensued.
Kansas Kyle almost lost his mind. “We’ve gotta help him!” “We need to get over there!” “They’re going to throw him out!” I wish I could convey how worried Kansas Kyle was about Colorado Kyle. They are after all the two gay fucking Kyles. I knew Colorado Kyle would talk his way out of the situation and he did. The stripper did try to take his glasses and say she was going to pawn them. But he got them back. She was really drunk at the beginning of the night and probably had to be told what happened the next morning. Apparently she pulls that stunt a lot.
After that, the rest of the night is a little hazy. I remember laying on the stage and having one stripper (maybe PTS) taking the dollar out of my mouth and onto my nose and then proceeded to rub herself on it. I remember I kissed one of the strippers. It wasn’t a makeout kiss, but a kiss nonetheless, which I think is generally a mistake.
SIDE NOTE: There’s this Dentyne commercial that says “the average person has 26 first kisses in their life.” I remember hearing that and I couldn’t believe it. Twenty-six? That seemed absurd at the time, but after asking a few friends, I’m realizing that maybe 26 isn’t that ridiculous. Even so, the first time I heard that I thought to myself, “Self, I’m pretty sure I have 26 first kisses in a year.” So, I’ve decided to start counting. As of the stripper, I’m at 25. It’s September.
I digress. Later on I must have gotten a lapdance from some girl, because I distinctly remember having a nipple in my mouth. I also remember being asked not to do something by the management (I don’t quite remember what it was), so it’s possible that I did that in front of everyone. But I was down $20 more than I could account for, so a lapdance makes sense.
So, in summupance, a girl stuck her hand down my pants, another girl rubbed her nana on my nose, I suckled some girl’s nipple, Colorado Kyle got a free lapdance and almost got thrown out, Kansas Kyle saw God, and we got to bring in our own liquor while getting the strippers drunk on the liquor we purchased outside rather than on $12 watered-down club drinks. Seriously, I’m glad I got out alive and I’m afraid that if I ever go back it will be the end of me.