MDMA and the Oregonians -or- My Birthday Celebration

*note: actual names and places are changed to protect the guilty and the innocent

The night started at 8:30pm with six of us girls, a supply of MDMA, cocaine, Jaegermeister, and an itinerary that included the bar where I worked, the strip club where I once worked, and some dancing after that.  

The night ended at 5am with three of us girls, having taken all the MDMA, having spilled the cocaine that we didn’t snort, having left the Jaegermeister in a downtown hotel room, having danced both in clubs and in the Silver Cabaret Gentleman’s Club, and barefoot, having lost my shoes.  

Based on the results, I’d say my best friend Shari did a bang-up job orchestrating a birthday celebration night.  She wasn’t even supposed to be involved in my birthday celebration, actually.  I was invited to Las Vegas by a guy I was seeing, but he exposed his psycho side about a week ago, so that extravagant getaway was abandoned.  Oh well, at least I didn’t find myself sequestered in a Mandalay Bay mini-suite before he brought out the crazy.  This was on top of a pretty tough breakup from a really serious boyfriend that I had until about five weeks ago, so I deserved a good time, if I don’t say so myself.

So with the bad episodes behind me, Shari went into action to make sure my night was special, even hiring a driver to shuttle us around, which in retrospect was completely necessary.  Once the fun got started, we almost immediately lost a “last girl standing” contestant: at the bar where I work.  My manager Gus was generous enough to line up some shots of god knows what, and got us started off right.  The assortment of gangster types, hard-assed middle aged men, and after-work lingerers enjoyed the spectacle of six young ladies dressed and aggressively eager to party up and out.  Unfortunately, Loni, all 4’10” of her, just is not used to straight liquor and lost that, plus her dinner, in the ladies room within 25 minutes of merriment.  Not wanting to let anybody down though, she hung in there with us.

Shari told me we were going to revisit our past, and after weaving through Dallas traffic for a half hour, we arrived at the Silver Cabaret, my place of employment for several months last year, and the place where I first met Shari, who was by then a veteran dancer when I first showed up.  Since we both bailed for better things, it had changed names, lost its liquor license, and gone otherwise just a tad downhill, but being Friday night in Dallas, TX, there was no shortage of loose-walleted men filling the place at 10pm.  Shari also had the forethought to bring a bottle of Jaeger with us, so we had them line up shot glasses, and against everything that everyone knows about Jaeger, we started taking shots.  In between those, the MDMA was passed around, and the dueling intoxications started to work that party magic.  

Shari also pulled a few strings with a manager, and I found myself on the small stage that used to be in the VIP area.  Funny how quick those moves come back, too.  I guess it’s like riding a bike- a very profitable, erotic, bike.  The DJ announced that the small stage featured a “young customer trying it out for a song”, but a loud patron from the back of the room called bullshit on that immediately:

“She’s not a damn customer, she works here!  It’s a setup!”  

You can’t question strip club regulars on their talent evaluation, that’s for sure.  

I made almost $30 and had an offer from a man to do a table dance, but I chose instead to give it to Erin, one of the girls in our group.  After that was over, and through the warm fuzzies of my high, I looked around at all the eyes on our group, then sheepishly shimmied back into my dress in front of the entire club.  Good times.

By the time we got to the club downtown, we were clustered into two three-girl cuddle piles, just feeling the flow and watching passing lights in the city darkness.  When we finally stumbled out of the van and into the club, we took shots of chilled vodka, and then I lost everyone, jumped into the throng, and danced my ass off.

Around the time that Erin found me and signaled for us to go to the ladies’ room for a little bump out of the vial, Loni wasn’t feeling good and had the driver take her home.  And then there were 5.

We found Shari again, who was at the bar chatting up two guys that offered to buy us some drinks.  We all accepted, but Erin and I weren’t that interested in chatting, so we soon went back out onto the floor, leaving Shari and our friend Hanna to keep their alcohol benefactors in their thrall.  Dawn had to work in the morning, and bowed out, taking a cab home.  And then there were 4.  

The four guys at the club were in town for a football game.  Two were from Oregon, the other two went to college there, where they all met.  This was a reunion for them, which would culminate in watching their team play on Saturday night.  Until then, there were just up for a non-stop good time.  Turns out, they met the right group of girls for that, but who know how ‘a good time’ would eventually be defined?

We went with them to an after-hours lounge after that, worn out from dancing and also wanting something under 300 decibels to go with a comfy sofa.  My addled senses really appreciated the shape-shifting light effects in there, catching and participating in fragments of conversation until Erin signaled for me to follow her again to the ladies room.  The idea was to step up or game again, but after her second bump she got a nosebleed.  When we finally got it stopped, she was ready to hang it up for the night.  And then there were 3.

The Oregonian Quartet invited us to hang out in their room, where they claimed to have plenty of liquor and ice, plus a balcony and music.  The had all of those things indeed, as well as underwear and trash all over the floor, and countertops covered with empty cups, grocery bags, and an open pizza box filled with the bones and one whole leftover slice.  Obviously, they didn’t plan on having company in their room.  Or, they probably didn’t care either way.  Guys are immune to their own pig stys, it’s like they don’t even notice disgusting messes they make.  I don’t get it.

On the way over there, I broke a heel, but other than having to walk downtown sidewalks barefoot, I was very much intact.  Hanna’s right shoulder strap was hanging on by a literal thread, and Shari’s malfunctions appeared to be mental rather than wardrobe related.
The Oregonians, room mess aside, were a good time, even the guy who claimed to have been a “physique model” and told us he had offers to be a male stripper, but turned them down.  

This, I couldn’t resist.  

“You had offers?  What does that mean?  Does LeBare actively recruit in your area?  Did they call your agent and then email him an offer sheet?”

He mostly ignored my inquiry, and went on to explain how the “adult escort and dancing industry works”, which was very entertaining.  Somebody obviously paid attention when he read those wikipedia entries.  Apparently Shari had less patience for his routine, so she let the cat out of the bag that she and I used to be dancers.   Not long after that, we let the cats out for all to see.  

When you’re any combination of drunk, rolling, and high, things tend to blend and blur a little over time, but I do remember the following, at least somewhat in order:

• Getting under the covers with Shari, who either neglected or refused to take off her heels, but had no problem removing everything else.  
• Watching Hanna get railed up against the inside wall of the closet, shaking the stack of empty clothes hangers in the process.
• Shari goading the “physique model” into showing us his goods, which she immediately grabbed a hold of, demanding a demonstration.  
• The “physique model” talking one hell of a game (of course, with regards to his considerable sexual prowess) but then repeatedly having difficulty maintaining an erection.  Funny how it’s always the dickheads that talk the biggest who have the most actual shortcomings when it comes to action.
• Being both offended and also laughing hysterically when one of the guys asked another, who at the time was on top of Shari, with her legs propped against his shoulders, if he should take a video to submit to “Yellow Tail Amateur Lovers.com” at a later time.  If I recall, the guy had to think about it, then was too distracted to answer.  
• NO, HE DID NOT TAKE A VID, NOBODY DID!
• Getting compliments on my “hardwood floors”
• Watching two guys apparently try to line up a DP on Hanna, before (guess who?) couldn’t quite keep his erection to execute it.  I’m not sure she would’ve been down for that anyway.  
• Having all kinds of fun with a very attractive, very cool, Oregonian of about six feet.  His equipment couldn’t have been longer than four and a half inches, and that was four and a half inches of pure fucking heaven.  
• Looking blankly at my two remaining party girls  when the last of the male erections turned in his resignation.  We were covered in sweat, among other things, since the guys forgot to turn on the A/C when we came in.  Two hours later, it was quite warm in there, since it was still almost 90F outside.  
• Taking a shower with Shari and Hanna, when one of those dumbasses came in with his camera phone, trying to take either pics or vids.  I reacted with shock and awe.  He briefly thought I was joking.  I was not joking.
• Coming down from the drugs, booze, and physical action in the van, on the North Central Expressway, and almost falling asleep as the clock turned 5am.  

It was a great birthday, my girls were awesome.  We’ll do it again soon.  To the Oregonians, wherever you are out there (by now, probably tailgating outside the stadium): it was real, boys.