**CONTINUED FROM A PREVIOUS POST**
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.
It’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.
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.
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?
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?
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.***