While in The Black Sheep barn (we live in a stable because we’re filthy animals) two of our staff writers, Hans Friedman and Rowdy Ric, were bored one Wednesday afternoon.
“What are you tryna do today?” Hans asked Ric.
“Idk, wanna hit the titty club?” replied Ric.
The following ensued… (Note: While the large bouncer you’ll meet in a bit was very nice, he was very stern and very serious about “keeping our phones in our pockets.” So while we weren’t able to snap pics of the mannequins or Grandma Bartender, we can assure you this is all very real, and what you’ll experience if you go to Electric Blue… on a Wednesday… at 2p.m.)
Upon arrival we were greeted by a large man, with a bunch of tattoos — a man that could strike fear into anyone with a cold hard stare. However, it turns he was one of the warmest, and most friendly people we had ever met. We had a few seconds of small talk as he checked our IDs and the short period of conversation felt like hours of deep conversation with a close friend.
However, as quick as it began, it ended. We were told, “you’re good,” given our IDs back, and ushered into the club. It felt as if we had made a best friend that day; a return to Electric Blue, just to hang out with the friendly bouncer, is worth the $5 cover everyday and twice on Wednesdays at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.
The first thing that struck us was how dark it was. We know strip clubs aren’t well lit and tend to be dingy, but holy shit, our good friend The Bouncer should’ve given us a white cane when we entered. We stumbled around, trying to make out the decor that we could see. Lots of Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling, which was… weird. But then our eyes fell upon the crowd of mannequins idling around — their cold, dead eyes staring back at us — which was, to put it lightly, unsettling.
And of course the usual lot of of hefty old dudes hanging out around a pool table grinding on their equally fat wives. Really fucking weird.
The Other Patrons:
Besides the bouncer and the
sexy ass mannequins we noticed something almost immediately: there were other people at this titty club on a Wednesday at 3:00 p.m.. While many of them were the greasy, unemployed middle-aged truckers you’d expect, some of them seemed like totally normal people. We had gone into this place thinking, “There’s no way other people are going to be there at this time,” and holy shit were we wrong. Who were these people? Aren’t you adults, with, like, jobs?
As our existential meltdown reached a breaking point we spiraled deeper and deeper into the establishment. Like Dorothy in a twisting whirlwind of strippers and mannequins one man hurried past us in a shirt and tie, buckling his pants as if he had a work meeting to get to and he totally wasn’t ashamed of what he just did. What is this place? Something needed to lurch us back to reality before it was too late.
Looking around for where we should sit, we gravitated towards the bar, assuming that a little alcohol and some time to collect our thoughts was the only way to make sense of the randomness surrounding us. The bartender, a lively woman who could not have been younger than 60, hustled over to take our drink orders.
We asked her how much for a beer, and her reply of, “How much cash do you have?” pretty much set the tone for the rest of the trip. After bringing us our $4 skunked Natty Lights, her small talk felt like when you visited your sort-of-trashy high school friend’s Nascar-loving grandma, which wrenched us back to reality. She then tipped off the strippers that we had cash and were probably less likely to sexually assault them than any other patrons who seemingly crawled out of a ‘70s porn movie. And not the actors of a ’70s porn movie, we’re talking, like, the union guys working the boom mic of a ’70s porn movie.
Finally, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Do you enjoy spending (surprisingly little) money to become intimate with Eastern European chicks? If so, we sure as hell know where you’re going tonight! While the 3 p.m. on a weekday JV Strip Squad may not have been the most attractive bunch from the neck up or the C-section scar-down, these women could really drive a stick shift if you know what we’re saying.
While the two of us sat at the bar, we were approached by a couple of strippers offering lap dances for what seemed like a steal at $20. Being the gentlemen we are, we agreed and were led to the back room where the dances took place. Only there were we offered entrance into the “Champaign Room,” a magical place where anything, yes we said anything (which was heavily emphasized to us), could happen. We may or may not have opted to go in, that’s on you readers to decide, but realistically… what do you think?