Hi everyone, It’s Meghan from over at Blog Voyeur Turned Blogwhore and the Oh! So Lovely Jamie asked me to do a guest post while she’s visiting the house of mouse. This is my first time doing a guest post and I’m kind of insanely nervous, so really it makes me think I should just share another classic first time with you so we can all be awkward together.

I’m kind of a trainwreck on my blog, why change that now?

The First Time I ever Went to the Strippers!

I was eighteen when I left home and made my way to college, and like most of the people unpacking in the dormitory was looking forward to my first year of independence, studies but more importantly FREEDOM to do whatever I chose.

The slight difference that was noticed between the others and myself which became apparently from the first night was my lack of experience, of…..anything. Cards and beer and coolers came out and as the fizziness of my first ever Mike’s Hard started to loosen up and as the conversation flowed the divide became even more obvious.

“So you’ve never drank before?” Hot European dude.

“Nope, other than the occasional drink, but not drunk.”

“So you’ve never had sex?” girl sitting on guys lap across from me. I think she had.

“Nope. Never even kissed a guy other than a school play.”

“Let me get this straight… You’ve never been away from home, never been kissed, never smoked, done drugs or been in trouble?” The girl who would soon become my best friend and take me under her wing.

“Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. »

There was no response necessary. The group just eyeballed each other with what I thought was amazement, but I now know looking back was something else. Excitement.

I was fresh, untainted, corruptible meat.

So the plans started formulating and before I knew it Saturday night had come and I had been outfitted with the best of short skirts and the worst of Fake ID’s armed to take on the club almost a full year before I was legal to do so. The energy was electric and yet there was something off I couldn’t quite place my finger off.

“Don’t the guys normally come out to the bar with us?”

“No, no. They always come afterwards. The women always go for the first hour or so by themselves.”

So off we went, purses and glitter and wedge heels that only the late 90’s would allow. Noone was gonna break my stride, noone was gonna hold me down. No way.

It worked! The fake ID worked! And inside the college bar, home of the dollar beer and the toonie shooter I looked around and was amazed by the glowing beer signs and the large screen TV’s showing The Simpson’s in the background in case we got bored. It was smelly. It didn’t look hygienic. It was fabulous.

I was barely propped up on my barstool, trying to find the best way to hold my drink and sit like a lady in a miniskirt, when I saw the smirks on the faces of my friends. I turned around.

There was a male there and he was naked. I saw things I had never seen before. My peripheral vision was aghast with mantan and body oil, zebra thong and washboard abs. I couldn’t hear the cougars in the background screaming like banshees. I couldn’t see the stagette full of women pawing at him like a walking, talking sample sale. It was just me, him and his thing. So I did what any person would do.

I screamed in his face.

At the top of my lungs, a scream that could curdle blood and rival anyone big breasted woman in a B grade movie getting chased by a knife. It was loud enough the music paused and the naked man jumped about ten feet in the air almost landing on me and yelping back in surprise.

And the bar howled, my friends being the worst offenders. From that point forward the rest of the male exotic dancers had already heard about me and made it their point to come over for a show. My face matched the hair and possibly the curtains that none of these boys were ever going to see. It was horrifying. And when the boys came to meet us at the bar afterwards and they heard all they could do is laughing knowing it was exactly the reaction everyone was going for.

I hated the dorm boys for it. I hated the dorm girls for it. I hated the strippers whose face I screamed in. But eventually I got over it, as with a few years of debauchery and hijinks under my belt, with the halo dimmed and put away for good I knew that in my last year I had a mission to pull off. A tradition.

Let’s corrupt the new girl.