What’s Really In A Name?

According to the various historical documents I was leafing through yesterday, surnames originally designated a person’s occupation. They also may have described a particular event that related to that person. For instance, John the blacksmith came to be known as John Smith. Or, Michael Little would be so named because he was small in stature. Tom Underhill lived at the bottom of the hill. Jim Baker was a baker… and so on.

Really makes you wonder what was going on in the Dickinson clan way back when.

I think that guy is related to Ben Dover.
I think that guy is related to Ben Dover.

You Know Who I Hate?

You Fucker
You Fucker

Fuckers. You know…fuckers. Also known in some other cultures as dickheads, assholes, cocksuckers. You’ll find them everywhere as they roam the streets freely, their fuckery going on unchecked. What I hate most about fuckers is what big fuckers they are. A fucker may or may not be aware that he or she is a fucker, but will continue on being a fucker regardless. Because, you see, the most important thing to a fucker is his or her own fucking self. That is a large part of what makes a fucker a fucker, a complete lack of regard for all others–non-fuckers and fellow fuckers alike.

You know what I say? Fuck ’em. Fuck all those fuckers. They probably won’t even notice that we’ve decided to fuck them and their fucking ways, the bunch of self-absorbed fuckers. But I say we fuck them all the same. Serves them right. They chose to fuck us so now we too shall fuck unto them. Oh yes, the fuckers have become the fuckees. Well if they didn’t want to be fucked, they shouldn’t have done all that fucking of us nonfuckers.

Man, I can just see it now…one of these fuckers is gonna come up to one of us and say, “Oh please stop being a fucker to me, I don’t like it. It hurts my fucking feelings.”

If that happens, just say, “Quit whining, fucker.”

And at that moment, the shoe will have officially been placed on the other foot. And the shoe fits, baby.

That Prick Over There Just Stuck His Finger In My…

I know a woman who stripped her way through college. Shes now a corporate headhunter, pulling down a six figure annual salary, shes married, and shes got a kid. Her story, as they say, ends happily ever after.

Sadly, she’s the only stripper I’ve ever “known” (and not in the Biblical sense, either). Sure, I’ve ENCOUNTERED many an exotic dancer back in the day, but I can’t say I’ve ever really known them any better than, say, the guy who delivers my pizza. And that’s not its because I believe I’m too good to get friendly with a stripper; quite the contrary. I’ve just always imagined there are lines an exotic dancer doesn’t want crossed; some fat dork from West Virginia asking “You wanna grab lunch some time?” might be just the sorta line-crossing I’d imagine they’re uncomfortable with.

However, I haven’t frequented a strip club since “Lady Luck” in White Sulphur Springs, circa ‘2000-2001, with Garrick. “Lady Luck” was a fully nude strip joint which meant that the dancers would get labia-dangling naked. What a wild, wonderful world it was to discover…

For about a month. Then, Garrick and I got tired of giving away hard-earned cash just to look at naked ladies. Mind you, these were the days before we had high speed internet available (when the options one had to look at nude women you weren’t involved with were limited) and long before I’d ever marry (at which point, I got to see a naked lady for free regularly AND do stuff with her), but that first glimpse at a Live Nude Girl clutching a brass pole with her thighs to the beat of “You Shook Me All Night Long” still lingers in my head. Oddly enough, it’s not the ladies who made it all so memorable, but rather the dudes jockeying for position around the stage.

We were happy to hand the dancers our tips, rather than make the bill exchange from lips to cleavage, or worse, from fingers to vag/ass. There was no seduction necessary, because we didn’t buy into the fantasy – which is probably why we never became regulars. Both of us knew that, in the real world, none of these fine ladies would take a leak on us if we were on fire at their feet in a public toilet after their water pill just kicked in, so we couldn’t pretend that the furtive glances and come-hither eye contact was anything more than role-playing. And if I want to enter a magical world of make-believe, I’ll watch old “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood” episodes.

While in Lady Luck, Garrick and I spent as much time looking at our fellow patrons as we did looking at pussy. There were the OPEC Guidos – the Italian dudes whose hair was slicked back with so much oil that, fuck Iraq – Bush should’ve went to war on these dudes’ heads. There were the OP’s – the guys who came solo, who I always imagined stepping up to the ticket counter at a movie theater and sighing “One, Please.” There were the Thread-Bares – the fellas who accepted so many lap-dances that their pants looked like they belonged to the Michael Palin’s prisoner character in the opening credits of “Monty Python’s Flying Circus”, as he hangs from chains on a dungeon wall.

But the most fascinating category of strip-clubbers we used to obsess over were the True Believers – the guys who bought into the myth, and seemed to seriously believe they had a shot with these women once “Girls, Girls, Girls” ended.

I’m sure that, if they ever noticed me gawking at them, the True Believers would’ve assumed I was into cock – so intense was my fascinated gaze. But I never had to worry about being caught studying them, as they never… NEVER took their eyes off the prize, man. These dudes were locked onto their targets – whichever girl was on the catwalk at the moment – like a NORAD-programmed ICB. This would reach a height of utter disturbance when the ladies finally worked their way over to the fellas in question. The fucking eye contact was so intense, you’d almost buy that there was a Chuck-Woolery-level love connection in their future. But then you’d look at the parties involved – a tanning-bed frequenting, twenty-something gorgeous Goddess, decked out in fuck-me pumps and clothes that’d do the Emperor proud, and a forty year old Indian-American in thick specs, thinning, black-matted hair matching that of his Father, who, incidentally, was seated beside him.

On the night of our second-to-last visit to Lady Luck, Garrick and I took the opportunity to talk to one of the dancers about their Oscar-worthy performances with some of the least desirable-looking men in Greenbrier County. The woman in question sauntered over to us, wearing an addled expression, asking if either of us were interested in a lap dance.

Bet Live

“You seem upset?” I observed.
“That prick over there just stuck his finger in my asshole,” she replied.
“Like right IN it?” Garrick asked.
“Can you believe it? What an animal.”
Proving that chivalry wasn’t dead, Garrick immediately pushed twenty bucks into the woman’s hands, saying “Here – you deserve this.”
“Sit down,” she said, getting into lap-dancing position.
“No, that’s cool,” Garrick countered. “I’d rather just talk.”

Somewhat surprised, the girl sat beside us at the bar. We chatted for almost a half hour, inquiring about her life and what made he want to dance in the first place. Periodically, Garrick would hand our new friend another twenty bucks, guilt-ridden over the fact that one of our own gender would breach the girl’s exhaust, uninvited.

We learned so much about the dancer’s life in that half hour, but more than that, we learned that it was possible for the insanely beautiful to find a pair of trolls interesting. I mean, here was this heavenly creature, engaged in a conversation with us, getting to know us not for what we could give her, but because we showed her a little human compassion in her hour of need. We didn’t look at her like she was a pair of tits (even though she was completely naked), and she didn’t look at us like we were those Hindi True Believers down the bar – one of whom who’d been very forward with his pointer digit.

Rather than have her see us as the kind of guys who’d talk to her like human beings for half an hour only to ogle her while she worked the pole later on, Garrick and I excused ourselves from Lady Luck and headed home, all-the-while discussing our new found friend as well as the utter tragedy of the True Believers who thought for a minute that they were being treated with any degree of sincerity as they forked over their bills.

A week later, Garrick and I went back to Lady Luck. As we paid the cover charge, we saw our new friend onstage, pelvis-thrusting into some dope’s face. Rather than make her uncomfortable, we opted to hang out on a side couch ’til her set was over, refusing the legion of lap dances offered to us by the ladies waiting for their sets.

When the girl got off stage, she offered us this very concerned look as she approached us. We wondered if we’d done something wrong by coming back to the club during her act, now that we were all friends and whatnot. But as she joined us on the couch, she immediately dispelled that misconception in and oddly familiar way.

“What’s the matter?” Garrick asked.
“Some prick over there stuck his finger in my asshole,” she offered, shaking her head.
“What – again?” I inquired. “Is that like a frequent on-the-job hazard?”
“What?” she yelled over the blaring music.
“That Hindu guy did the same thing to you last week.”
The girl nodded at me, a bit perplexed, and then said “You guys want table dance?”

And then, it became clear that not only did the girl not remember us from the week before, but also that finger-in-the-asshole she’d complained about probably didn’t happen either. We’d been played; she’d marked us as the wannabe-sensitive types who thought too much of themselves to gawk at gash and mash our faces into boobs. We were too proud to behave like the standard clientele, and y’know what they say – “Pride goeth before the fall.” And as we not only fell but plummeted toward the realization that we’d been had, it dawned on me that somewhere in that bar, someone was looking at Garrick and I and labeling us as the kinda guys who actually believed they were better than everyone else in the club, because they were sensitive and viewed the women as more than just the business-types hell-bent for loot; they saw the working girls as people who, given the chance, would rather have a conversation with them than thrust their cooters within an inch of their mouth. And the standard label for guys like that?

Following that, we never went to Lady Luck again.