TAMPA TRIP 

"This calls for a celebration!" It was a proclamation I would soon regret making. Steve had booked the emcee spot at one of the classiest comedy clubs in Florida. We agreed that I would drive to Tampa on Sunday, watch his performance and crash at his place for the night.

Steve had been at it for almost five years. Like most comics, his first few years were spent in dingy dens entertaining unappreciative drunks and other assorted low-lifes on "open mike" nights. But Steve is a smooth talker, and remarkably tenacious when it comes to getting what he wants, so for the past few months he had been securing stage time at clubs he was not sufficiently seasoned to play. As a result, he was barely maintaining a 60% success ratio for his shows. Aside from his relative inexperience, part of the problem was that Steve frequently came across as cocky and abrasive on stage, as if he were already a bona fide celebrity and the audience should consider themselves lucky that he would mentally masturbate in their presence. In other words, it was easy to dislike him and audiences often did.
The drive from Orlando was tedious and uneventful. Interstate 4 offers little aesthetically pleasing scenery. I pulled into Steve's driveway around 7PM, leaving me just enough time to shit, shower and shave before the 8:30 show.
 

Despite his best efforts, Steve gave a less-than-impressive performance. Once again, the smart-ass banter that he considered crowd interaction came across as rude uncalled for remarks. After slinking off the stage, Steve discreetly made his way to my table. I dutifully showered him with hackneyed consolations to assuage his battered ego. Most likely to change the subject, Steve announced that his birthday had passed two days ago. In honor of the occasion I ordered four cocktails. I erroneously assumed that the waitress would honor the long-standing comedy club custom of comping the performer‘s drinks, but either she was unfamiliar with the concept or she just didn‘t give a shit about it. When the check arrived I got hit with a $21 tab, not including tax or tip. I left with only $30 dollars remaining of my original fifty-five. After the show we headed to the nearest McDonald's for a midnight snack, and left with four cheeseburgers that had obviously been made at lunchtime.
 

Leaving McD’s the night was still relatively young, so I was not surprised when Steve announced his intention to take me "somewhere." Knowing him as well as I do, I suspected the plans he had in mind were not the kind we would ever execute with prospective or established girlfriends present. Having spent nearly half of the cash I had allotted for the trip only four hours after arriving I was less than eager to patronize any business whose mission statement is "Reel men in and rob them blind." I voiced my objections but Steve would not be dissuaded. He even tried to convince me that the impromptu outing was for the benefit of my enjoyment. When that didn’t work, he successfully lobbied my cooperation by playing the belated birthday celebration card.
 

We cruised South on Tampa's main drag until Steve made a right on an innocuous side street leading to a labyrinth of dilapidated warehouses. After doubling back several times and numerous assurances that we were "almost there," Steve glided into the gravel parking lot of what appeared to be a nondescript manufactured home - except for the gaudy glowing sign outside heralding, "Playmates X-Posed." My worst suspicions were now confirmed, but the worst was yet to come. We walked through a small foyer before reaching the front door. We rang the doorbell and a minute later were greeted by two women of visibly low moral standing. One was a tall, tattooed Asian temptress, the other an alarmingly thin blond who may have been some kind of bi-racial blend. Steve entered first. Before I had both feet in the door the strippers began dictating the financial terms of the exchange. Steve, a shylock by birth, attempted to negotiate a discounted rate for services on account of his birthday, but the girls quickly made it clear that o.b.o. was not an option on their price index. We were quoted an up-front charge of twenty dollars "for the room." In addition, we were expected to tip the girls when the performance ended, but no minimum mandatory gratuity was stipulated.
 

Citing a shortage of cash, Steve suddenly recused himself as a customer but insisted that I take advantage of the wonderful entertainment opportunity available to me. He assured me that he had no problem hanging out for half an hour while I retreated to private quarters for an intimate engagement. Partially to expedite the evening’s end and partially to get back at Steve for dragging me to this den of iniquity then selling me out, I agreed to do so. The fact that I hadn’t been laid in over a year also contributed to my decision.
 

Because of my morbid fascination with light-skinned Nubian women I chose the narrow mulatto as my private dancer. I was led down a narrow hallway into a gaudily furnished den. Without explanation, Slim disappeared. I took a seat on a black leather ottoman and tried not to think about the moral implications or the financial consequences of what was about to take place. Alone with nothing but my thoughts, I soon found myself experiencing a mild panic attack as half-a-dozen worst case scenarios unfolded in my head. What if I had an aneurysm and died face down on a sofa that had witnessed more perversity than Bob Crane’s video camera? Would these soulless strippers have the decency to notify the proper authorities or would they simply pick my pockets and dump my body into the nearest dumpster? Paranoia supplanted panic. I became convinced that behind one of the mirrors decorating the walls a surveillance camera was secretly capturing video footage that would ensure the end of my political career before it even began. Hyperventilating was all I could do to keep from fainting.
 

When Slim returned, she instructed me to place my tip on a nearby end table. I removed three crumbled bills from my pocket and placed them on the glass surface. Like the Count of Monte Christo, she must have developed acute night vision from spending years in darkness, because she instantly recognized my wadded seven bucks as insufficient payment for her services. "The minimum tip is forty dollars," she dryly announced, as her hands rushed to a passive-aggressive position on her hips. At that point the voice of reason made its final appearance of the evening and I tried to rescind my solicitation of her services. I explained that I simply did not have that kind of money to spend even if I wanted to, to which she reflexively replied, "There are no refunds." Short on money and out of options, I made her the only offer I could honor. I offered to give her the seven dollars that remained in my wallet then charge an additional ten on my credit card. She pushed for my consent to put all forty on my card. I firmly explained that that was out of the question, since my VISA is billed to my father and any miscellaneous charge over ten bucks would arouse suspicion and invite scrutiny. Alas, she begrudgingly agreed to my proposal but informed me that my sub-standard gratuity would only entitle me to a "ten-minute dance." She started some crappy new-age music, dimmed the lights to one shade before pitch black, set an egg timer for ten minutes, then started dancing that slow, serpentine dance exclusive to women of the skin trade. Her clothing, which consisted of a single piece of negligee, gracefully fell to the floor. Aside from a keyloidal appendectomy scar and a complete absence of breasts, she appeared sleek, slender, and mildly fantastic in the sparse candlelight. As the dance progressed, Slim moved towards me ever so slowly. When she was within arm's reach, she turned around and started tantalizing me with her tighter than a snare drum rear end. Although her sex was close enough to orally copulate if I was inclined to do so I could barely make it out because of the exasperating absence of light.
 

Slowly the ever-present tension in my body dissolved and my concern for anything taking place outside of that room dissipated into oblivion. Shortly afterward, eighteen months worth of repressed hormones staged a violent revolt. All at once my biological imperative commandeered the reigns of self-control from my mind. I assumed that borderline savage state of horniness where even a crack whore looks like a triumphant sexual conquest. In the interest of total honesty I must reluctantly confess that if I had had enough cash in my possession at that time to solicit intercourse I would have done so in a heartbeat. Fortunately I did not.
 

About eight minutes into what was supposed to be a ten-minute dance, Slim abruptly got dressed, cut the music, flipped on the lights and announced that the show was over. Before my eyes had even adjusted to the light I was being dragged back into the living room where a credit card machine lay in wait of plastic prey. I handed Slim my Citibank. While in the process of swiping my card she listlessly announced that there was, “a twenty-dollar minimum charge on plastic.” The deceitful, money-grubbing half-assed whore had intentionally neglected to share this crucial piece of information with me during our negotiation dialogue. I briefly considered "slappin' da hoe," but decided against the idea for fear that a mammoth, muscle-bound bouncer would emerge from the woodwork and turn my neck into a chain of sausage links. She presented me with the carbons. I signed for the charge but kept my seven dollars out of spite. Since Steve was not on the couch were I had left him, I assumed that I would find him outside smoking a cigarette. Exhausted and bordering on bankruptcy I exited the trailer wanting nothing more than to call it a night. Not only was Steve nowhere to be found, his car was nowhere to be found.
 

Not wanting to be seen by law enforcement or the general public loitering in front of a watered-down house of ill-repute, I loitered in front of the neighboring business and entertained thoughts of killing Steve when he returned. Minutes later golf-ball sized raindrops began falling from the sky. As the merciless clouds bombarded my forehead with painful precipitation, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. If I paid Slim twenty dollars for the room and tipped her $20 - half of what she normally charges for a half-hour dance - couldn't I reasonably expect her to perform for fifteen minutes? Ultimately I paid $40 for a no-contact lap dance that was shorter than my first sexual experience. Just when I was certain that things could not get any worse, I felt red-hot sewing needles penetrating the tender flesh of my ankle. I had been standing in an ant pile. I cursed God's sick sense of humor and wondered why he didn't just kill me and get it over with. To compound the situation, my cheeseburgers had returned from the dead to seek vengeance on me for eating them. The random, painful fireworks in my gut assured me that I would be soon be urinating Tabasco chili out of my anus. Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty. I was unable to even guess where Steve might have gone. And what if he didn’t come back?! He was my ride and my lodging for the night. I did not know the specifics of his home address and probably did not have enough money for transportation to his house if I did. I had his home phone number, but I wasn’t about to call his house at that ungodly hour and risk giving his Jewish mother a coronary by telling her her little boy had mysteriously disappeared. Another ten minutes passed. Just when I started looking for a sharp stone to commit hara kiri with, Steve reappeared. I was so curious where the hell he had gone that I completely forgot how furious I was. Turns out Steve's libido had hog-tied his sense of fiscal responsibility and sent him on a mission. Five minutes after Slim and I paired off, he had high-tailed it to the nearest ATM to secure financing for an experience like the one I was supposed to be having at the time.
 

We left Playmates and drove to another jack shop identical in all respects but the name. Just as we did at Playmates an hour or so before, we knocked on the door and waited. Again two women of questionable moral integrity answered. One was a fairly attractive Puerto Rican female in her mid-twenties, the other was a Puerto Rican female version of Jabba the Hut. This monstrosity was fatter than Rosie O'Donnell but wore her gelatinous weight less well. Steve was quoted a price of twenty-five dollars "for the room," tip was of course additional. Accompanied by the human Hispanic girl, he disappeared into a private room. I was relegated to a chintzy waiting room complete with a contrasting assortment of furniture and an ancient television set. I remained in the company of Jabba Lopez, who stretched herself out on a recliner and became engrossed in some sensationalist tabloid television program. I tried making conversation but was met with indifferent one word responses, which is probably for the best, because if the conversation had progressed I would have been unable to resist asking her what form of psychosis had compelled her to get a job where physical beauty is the sole commodity for success. Instead I fumbled for my pen and began documenting the outlandish chain of events that had taken place that night.
 

EPILOGUE:
For a grand total of $75 Steve engaged in vaginal intercourse with his Puerto Rican rent-a-slut. During the ride back to his house he confessed that she was not nearly as attractive without her clothing, but refused to elaborate. He also reported that her vagina had quote, “a terrible odor.”
We got home sometime after 2 A-M. Steve’s father was sleeping on the couch. I awoke him while stumbling through the doorway in total darkness. Despite knowing that his father would be snoozing on the sofa, it did not occur to Steve to inform me at an earlier, more appropriate time. Conversely, Steve had also failed to tell his dad that I was to be quartered in his home for the night. His father was not pleased. Minutes later, in the privacy of his room, Steve confided that due to the degree of dysfunction in his parent‘s marriage, the sofa had been his dad’s nightly refuge for the last five years.
The next morning, Steve unexpectedly woke me well before the cock crows. It turns out he had also neglected to tell his mother about me spending the night. From the litany of ambiguous excuses he rattled off, I gathered that his mother had some urgent things to do around the house that could not be done while I slept unobtrusively on his bedroom floor. With only four and a half hours of sleep I began my return voyage to Orlando.

The two hour plus drive home afforded me ample opportunity to reflect on the sadistic currency corn holing that Slim had given me the night before and ample opportunity to get really angry about it. Minutes after pulling into my driveway, I called my credit card’s customer service department and cancelled ten dollars of the twenty dollar charge.
Ironically, a few months after the night of surreal mishaps chronicled in this retrospective, Steve got a temp job at the small sign-making business immediately next door to Playmates X-Posed and had a brief affair with the Asian temptress who I passed over. I have not since returned to Tampa.