After attending two parties at Mardi Gras, (and committing a few small misdemeanors and a potential felony), The Nudist and I decided it was time to meet my husband and our friends at “the big party.”

That’s not really the name of the party, but since none of us were creative enough, or sober enough, to call it anything else, that’s the name that stuck.

Somehow, I managed to get an invitation to this amazing party thrown by a friend of mine.  He and three other guys throw a huge party for Mardi Gras every year with free liquor and free food.

wrist bandIt’s a highly coveted party, and somehow, I managed to snag the invitation.  Probably because he knows about my VIP status and that I’m super important.  The party required color coded wrist bands, which I picked up the night before the event.

So The Nudist and I headed to the big party with our wristbands and our drinking shoes on (and by “drinking shoes” I meant my orthopedic shoes that alleviate foot pain, and The Nudist meant adorable boots with a heel).

We arrived at the big party, which was held in a huge warehouse.  As we approached, we were stopped by a bodyguard who demanded to see our wristbands.  We both held up our wrists to demonstrate we were actually on the guest list.

He seemed disappointed to let us in, and I asked why he was so upset.  He said “I was hoping neither of you had wrist bands so I could ask you to show me your boobs to get in.”

What?!  I could have just shown this guy my boobs to get in?  That would have saved me the hassle of the night before of driving all over town to pick up wrist bands.  Who knew?

But I figured that guy was being nice, and he really only wanted to see The Nudist’s boobs, and not mine.  Somehow, I had a feeling the extra support bra I was wearing wasn’t the look he was going for, although it might bring back memories of his grandma.

After consoling the bodyguard, and pointing out several other women showing their breasts, we headed to the party.  We passed the smell of urine and vomit, and realized we were close to the portable potties, which were located just outside the warehouse.

There were lines for each of the units, and judging by the people standing in line, there was lots of alcohol being served inside.

We stepped inside the party and noticed the bar was immediately to our right.  Because The Nudist and I didn’t want to offend our host, we immediately headed to the bar for a (free) drink.  When it was my turn at the bar, I ordered my drink, and glanced up at the woman taking my order.

waitress with padWhat was particularly noticeable about this woman wasn’t so much her pretty eyes, or her snaggle tooth, but the fact that she was topless.  Yes, topless.

I looked around at the 8-10 other bartenders and noticed the same thing…they were all topless…and the “bottoms” they were wearing barely covered their naughty spots.

These women were practically naked!  And I had a feeling these women gave a new meaning to the order of a “slippery nipple.”

Although they were barely dressed, their breasts were covered in body paint.  However, as I discovered watching these bartenders move briskly around the bar area, body paint may physically cover up the skin of the breast, but it doesn’t…ahem…provide any kind of support.

These women were running around the bar, their painted breasts flapping in the wind, and their self respect lost somewhere in the shuffle.

Because I’m not a prude, (and because I like free drinks), I took my drink from one of the topless women and proceeded away from the bar area.  I received a text from my husband that he was upstairs with our friends, so The Nudist and I headed there.

We passed a live band playing an unrecognizable tune,  but were simply relieved they were clothed.  Judging by the gut on the drummer, that was one naked chest I didn’t want to see.

thumbs upWe headed upstairs and noticed people everywhere.  This was clearly where the bulk of the party was happening (they obviously knew I would be there).  I saw my husband and made eye contact with him.

He ran over to me looking like a kid at Christmas.  He gave me a hug and kiss, and told me I was the best wife ever.  Well duh, I knew that already, but why was I the best wife ever?  Obviously he was happy about the topless painted bartenders.  I’m so cool.

We headed over to the spot where our friends were located, and then I saw it…the reason my husband thought I was the best wife ever…the reason why everyone was upstairs…the reason there was glitter randomly strewn about…there were naked strippers.

And not just any strippers, attractive strippers.  This wasn’t the B-team.  These women had pretty faces, as if any of the men in the room were looking at their faces.

They were high class strippers, if there is such a thing, and if you call walking around naked in a room of several hundred people high class.  But these women looked pretty good.

Stretch marks, saggy boobs and c-section scars were nowhere to be found on these strippersm although I had a feeling there were lots of these findings on the patrons in the audience.

Because I’m a super cool wife, this kind of stuff just doesn’t bother me.  I’m not sure if it should, but it doesn’t.  I didn’t feel threatened or uncomfortable so I embraced the strippers.  Not literally, as there isn’t enough Purell in the world to make that happen.

I stood back and enjoyed the show.  And what a show was it!  These women were quite talented performers.  From flexibility to stamina, these women were in shape.


I considered asking them who their personal trainer was, although judging by their skinny bodies and high energy, I figured their workout regimen included crystal meth, Mt.Dew, and cardio of the horizontal nature.

As we stood there, contemplating which women weren’t hugged by their fathers enough, and which ones were hugged too much, we noticed the strippers were dancing on a stage.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a revelation, as a stage and a pole are staple requirements for strippers, much like a toolbox and saw for plumbers, or deceit and hidden flasks of liquor for lawyers.

Or maybe that’s just me?

What was strange about this realization is that this was an old warehouse, and we were pretty sure the building didn’t come equipped with a stage and stripper pole, although if it did, we had a feeling there would be an influx of job applicants to do warehouse work.

Rather, my friend and his friends clearly had the stage constructed just for this event. Can you imagine being the contractor to get the call for that job?

man cleaningThe stage was actually constructed quite well, with a sturdy pole and linoleum for easy clean up.

We knew it was easy to clean, because there was a dorky guy constantly on his hands and knees fiercely wiping the floor with paper towels.  We decided this guy’s name was Herman, and he was clearly a stickler cleanliness.

The knees of his jeans were stained with whatever substance was so regularly spilling on the floor, and we worried Herman was going to tear a rotator cuff the way he was rapidly scrubbing the stage.

What was funniest about Herman (aside from the irony of the fact we were sure he’d never actually touched a woman), was that he didn’t seem to care if his cleanup was required while the girls were dancing.  That wasn’t of concern to Herman.

So the girls would be on stage, dancing and accepting money with various body parts, while Herman would be on the other side of the stage, a few feet away, rapidly scrubbing the floor, his sweat adding to the combination of fluids on stage.

I would like to say we ignored Herman and watched the show, but we found ourselves drawn to Herman.

How did he get that job?  Was he getting paid?  Or was he just some random guy in the audience who was handy with a paper towel and some elbow grease?  We secretly hoped for the latter.

At one point, women from the audience got on stage to strip.  One woman, who was probably in her early 20s, got on stage and immediately removed her top and bra (you know…as you do when you’re within a foot of a stripper pole).  She began swinging around the pole in her jeans, caressing it as if she had known it forever.

She was a natural.  After a few swings on the pole, she took a bow and headed off stage.  A few minutes later I received a tap on my shoulder, and looked over to find the amateur stripper on the other end of the finger tap.  She looked me straight in the eye and said “Have you seen my bra?”

I considered telling her that her bra was probably nowhere to be found…much like her pride and self worth, but instead, I told her the last time I saw her bra was when she was swinging it above her head while pretending to ride and smack an imaginary horse.

She continued on in the crowd looking for her A-cup bra that was most certainly stuffed in Herman’s pocket.


We stayed for several hours, observing the entertainment, chatting, and just having a good time.  Perhaps what was funniest about the entire thing (aside from Herman’s dedication to cleanliness), was that most people didn’t seem to notice there were naked women walking around and sometimes dancing on stage.

It was as if that was a completely normal occurrence, like brushing your teeth or eating while working out.  Do you guys not do that?

And what was even more perplexing to us was the fact that there were a couple hundred people downstairs on the main floor dancing to the band and just hanging out.

Why wouldn’t they be upstairs watching the strippers and observing local women with low self esteem get on stage and lose their bras?  What was wrong with those people?

hands and pizza

We got a cab back to The Nudist’s place, stuffed our faces with approximately a dozen frozen pizzas from California Pizza Kitchen, and then called a sober friend to pick us up and take us home.

We also wondered how it was that a single woman had enough frozen CPK pizzas in her fridge to feed a group of hungry drunk people.  That’s another blog for another day. At around 7:00, when we had been there for 5 hours, I decided it was time to go home.

The rest of my friends weren’t as convinced it was time to go, but I reminded them I could be quite annoying if I didn’t get my way.

They conceded, mostly because they figured the negative effects of my wrath far outweighed the positive effects of naked women.  It was a sound decision on their part.

On the ride home we discussed the day and the various parties we attended.  We all agreed that “the big party” was the best one, and we had a great time.  Then we got out our calendars, marked the date for Mardi Gras 2013, and began the countdown for next year.  Only 364 more days…


***Now that you’ve read this post, go back to the photos in this post and you will see the stripper pole in the background of both photos.***

7 Thoughts on “Mardi Gras Mayhem: Part III (The conclusion)

  1. Ah, a humorous tale, unfortunately marred by false factual conclusions (verify, verify verify!)Luckily, we can set the record staraight. First, the easy fix: The sought after, private, invitation-only party to which you managed to be invited did have a name. It is the Marty Gra Bash. this past year’s event being “Marty Gra Bash IV.” Second, although you claim not to be a prude and to embrace certain aspects of the party,your focus n the bartenders and upstairs events and your castigation of the women involved, reveals unfounded assumptions,biases and prejudcies — and misses the point of the event.

    The point of the party is to sprinkle some good natured, harmless mardi-gra-esque nakedness into a mainstream legitimate party, with a guest list that includes more women then men, and features professionals, politicians, and law enforcement, as well as other mardi gras enthusiasts. It is NOT about the nakedness. That is decoration, not purpose. Although you don’t focus on it much, you actually noticed the truth when you wrote:

    “most people didn’t seem to notice there were naked women walking around and sometimes dancing on stage. It was as if that was a completely normal occurrence..there were a couple hundred people downstairs on the main floor dancing to the band and just hanging out… [rather than being] upstairs watching the strippers.”

    Although you ask “what is wrong with those people? I suggest that is not the correct focus of the question. They understood the party, as did many of those who wandered upstairs or chatted with the bartenders who provided the drinks. (Contd)

    • (part 2 of comment) The prejudcies you need to overcome are twofold. First, is the misfocus on the nakedness, which is further highlighted by statements such as “We passed a live band playing an unrecognizable tune, but were simply relieved they were clothed. Judging by the gut on the drummer, that was one naked chest I didn’t want to see.” Your preoccupation with the minor-aspect toplessness, caused you to fail to recognize that, in fact, the band (known as OWG) is one of the top bands in St Louis, playing classic rock, mixed with more modern tunes, at many blue-blood, high profile private parties at high demand. They play this free-to-those-invited party for over six and a half hours. You also completely failed to notice that during the band’s breaks, the crowd was kept moving by the spinnings of St Louis’ top spinmaster — DJ Charlie, who has long spun tunes for the crowd en route to cards games at Downtown Hotshots. He is there for over seven hours.

      You also misjudge, grossly unfairly, the bartenders who work the parties. These young women are not “professionals”, but are rather average, mainstream women, who out of a love of mardi gras, agree to work for tips only, in a high volume, long-hour day, to keep the drinks flowing. They are not abused, exploited, uneducated or escort-esque. Despite their willingness to take the dare and do the job in bodypaint or mesh, these were not women who “weren’t hugged by their fathers enough” or who “were hugged too much” and there was no “self respect lost in the shuffle.” Why do you assume that women who are able to be comfortable in their body, especially during mardi gras, have some sort of emotional or psychological foible? A question to explore in your next therapy session perhaps?

      Similarly, the women who chose to dance with the dancers were enjoying the day — one in which they can have fun out of context and then go back to their lives — did not lose any pride and self worth, and I’m sure they still know where to find those valuable traits. The bartenders and dancers are all highly educated women, with “real jobs” that would surprise you.

      THere is some good news for you, however…. About “Hermann”…. Your secret prayers are answered. Although not compleely random, he really was just some guy in the audience who was handy with a paper towel and some elbow grease, and thought he should help out.” The good neighbor concept apparently lives on….

      -Someone “in the know”

  2. The Nanny on February 26, 2012 at 6:37 pm said:

    Sounds like you had a great time! And how can anyone with a friend named The Nudist be a prude? C’mon!

  3. MartyGraSTL… look up the word “sarcasm.” It’s a good word to know. Oh and while you are at it, look up the word “relax.”

  4. Anonymous on March 28, 2012 at 11:10 pm said:

    haha I ended up at that warehouse party last year! I’d gotten separated from the two people in my group who I figured I could count on to keep me safe throughout the day, and as you noted, there was no hope of reaching them, as my phone had died earlier in the day due to it taking at least an hour every time I tried to process a simple text message! I was literally hitting on random guys then saying ‘Hey, could I borrow your phone?’ Unfortunately, it was not until the party ended that I was reunited with the other two. However, as luck would have it, I did run into my hairdresser (a girl I went to highschool with) who knew the people throwing the party. She took good care of me for the remainder of the party…and even afterward when I informed her that I’d lost my bag, cell phone, coat, and digital camera, and that my friend had lost his brand new leather coat. (Ironically, my cousin found my cell phone -not with the other stuff!- on the sidewalk next to a bar -that we obviously got kicked out of- in Soulard the next morning) My friend was actually able to track down my camera & my friend’s coat! To this day, I will mark that as a Mardi Gras WIN! (Who knew those even existed?!?)The next morning, my sister recounted for me that when she came to pick us up that night, I (obviously) had no clue exactly WHERE in Soulard we were, and in response to her prompting me for some clues ‘Ok, What are you standing by??’ I responded with ‘Danny’. Somehow, she was eventually able to find us…but Lord knows how!! *sigh* I miss Mardi Gras in St. Louis!!

  5. I really enjoy your stories! Especially this mardi gras story! Plus your hot! Lol

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