The Booty Club

Originally posted on my blog, wordplaycrazy, October 2020.

The best part of the booty club is getting to call it the booty club.

There are plenty of reasons to love the booty club, but this is chief amongst them. The word booty club is funny. At least it makes me chuckle. “Strip club” is pedestrian. Gentlemans Club is too litigious sounding. Booty club is unmistakable. And if you say it over and over, it takes on a sense of absurdity that is always hilarious.

I used to frequent the booty club in my youth. Beyond the obvious carnal reasons, it’s a good place to discover new music. The food was also amazing. It sounds trite, but sometimes the best part of the booty club often had nothing to do with the booty.

I used to frequent the day shifts at the booty club. Day shifts are better. Slightly cheaper, and a fiercely dedicated crew. It was like Cheers, if Cheers was a booty club. Everyone knows your name and if you frequented it enough, your PIN number.

Follies was my favorite booty club. I swear to God. They had a large international stripper population. Follies had their own oddities, though. They wouldn’t let you walk in by yourself; by that I mean, no two guys could walk in together (or two women). It was very Noah Arky with the one man per one woman rule. It never made sense.

Booty club conversations are exceptional. One time, a patron sitting next to me at Pin Ups told me she didn’t “fuck [redacted]’s because the condom always fell off”. That was a memorable conversation. Another outing, at Strokers, I spoke with a dancer about her Master’s program, as we listened to T-Pain.

I’ve seen guys fall in love at the booty club and I always wondered why. I’ve also seen guys go explicitly to disrespect women, which must be a depressing way for them to feel better about themselves. Sadly, the misogyny often ran rampant and unwarranted. It was corny to watch guys get a kick out of being ugly to women. It is a pitiful existence if the only way to define your masculinity is through hatred and disrespect. Those same guys in ruffled shirts, slack jawed and doughy, came solely to mock strippers who, more often than not, drove better, lived in nicer homes, and had more streams of revenue.

“Goodtaseey’alltonight, ladies lemme see your purses, fellas step to my left. Ladies free, $20 for niggas,”

And with that, my 23rd birthday celebration began; standing outside of Onyx, being aggressively patted down by some ex-linebacker. I was in black socks, no shoes, as I gave my sneakers to my homegirl who had on sandals, but wasn’t allowed in, as no girl can have on open-toed shoes (apparently it is a safety hazard to have naked toes in a booty club).

When we walked in, we noticed someone who acted in Set it Off was in there with her girlfriend. They had coronas and chatted casually at the bar, as we drunkenly stumbled by. It was a Wednesday, so the club wasn’t packed. We found ourselves a nice little back wall to set up camp.

My homeboy [redacted] was the first to get a dance. Wanting to celebrate my birthday and with some moderately priced vodka pumping through my veins, I took my phone out to take a picture of [redacted]’s dancer. I had just gotten my iPhone one week earlier, so I had no clue how to cut the flash off (for the uninitiated it’s a huge no no to take flash photography in the booty club). Alas, a young brother didn’t know how to operate his new phone and mistakenly took the brightest flash picture on earth of this woman.

Immediately, she looked up, glaring at me as I clumsily stuffed my phone into my pocket. Caught red-handed, I slinked towards her, palms up, pleading for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry, my bad, I didn’t mean it,”

“No!”

My pitiful stammering was to no avail, as a security officer walked over to the commotion and escorted me out.

Before he came over, I passed my phone to another one of my friend’s. I figured they’d frisk me again once I got outside, and with no evidence, they’d have to let me back inside. Sure enough, as I walked out, the officer patted me down. After shrugging and mumbling something incoherent, the security guard let me go back in. No phone in sight.

Now this is where idiocy takes center stage. I asked my friend to pass me my phone back so I can get on Twitter. Early effects of Social Dilemma. Roughly 10 minutes later, the security officer who put me out, sidles up beside me and looks at my hand.

“I thought you said you aint have no phone?”

My head dropped, and I was re-kicked out of the club. Now outside, only in my socks, drunk, and kicked out of the booty club twice in about 10 minutes, I wondered how I came to be in such a precarious spot. I also really wished I had my shoes.

After a few moments, the security officer looked at my pitiful condition, sighed and growled “nigga get back inside” with a wave of the hand.

I scurried back in, asked for my phone again, and bought a drink. Year 23 was off to an inauspicious start.

*Long live Follies and all the other dying booty clubs.