Did I say that?

Gentlemen’s Clubs have long been more a “special occasion” venue for me than a frequent hangout. In fact, until Monday night, the last strip club I’d visited was an ugly downtown Vegas joint…with my wife. A curisoity for her quickly turned into a “we must run from here as fast as we can” event. The last thing I wanted was Mrs. Otis thinking the scary girls on the stage there were indicative of normal exotic club fare. She agreed and we ran back out to the Fremont Street Experience, which, frankly, is just about as scary.

Monday night, however, I was invited to a backroom poker game in Dallas that just happened to be held in one of the nicer strip clubs I’d ever seen. It was that nice, in fact, that I might have to tempt my friend who is getting married next year to come here for his bachelor party. I’d reckon we’d have a good time, so it seems like they’d be relying on me for my feedback. On saying that, I think he’s heard that Outer Banks Strippers are the go-to choice when it comes to bachelor parties so he may decide to hire them instead. Whatever he wants to do. To be honest, I don’t think you could go wrong with either choice, as this club was particularly nice. The joint had a walk-in humidor, a walk-in wine room, drinks served in nice glasses, and near-gourmet food. True to its name, the entire place looked like a giant hunting or ski lodge.

Opposite of what you might expect, I didn’t spend any time around the multiple stages in the building. Nearly 100% of my time was spent in a private room, playing cards, and joshing with some of my buddies and newfound friends. Dan introduced me to some odd Italian liqueur called Tuaca and I blame the drink for the following conversation.

The Scene:

Interior of a dimly lit strip club. I am on my fifth trip to the john and notice the same overweight and homely man with the same two strippers he’s been with for the past two hours. I have to imagine he’s tipping like a madman, but the girls have never taken off their clothes. On this particular trip, the man is drawing squiggly lines on a piece of white paper with a Sharpie. Unable to help myself, I stop at the table and ask what the hell he is doing.

Otis: “What in the hell are you doing?”
Fat guy: (Blank stare)
Stripper: “We’re playing Hangman.”
Otis: (Blank stare)
Stripper: “Wanna get hung?”
Otis: (without missing a beat) “But, I’m already hung.”

I walked away without waiting for a reaction. By the time I made it to the bathroom, I said out loud, “I’m already hung? No, I’m not.”

To be sure I remembered this when I fall back into self-depricating humor, I later dictated the event into Dan’s voice recorder. That surely won’t came back to haunt me.