Sunday, May 30, 2004
Still trying to work out my emotional baggage over Rusty's drinking & driving episode. I was pleasantly surprised by an unexpected phone call from Jessica (of Valley Girl's Progress fame), concerned about my angst-ridden previous post. She wondered if perhaps Rusty wasn't trying to sabotage the relationship or test me in some way, subconsciously, of course. Another friend just laughed and said, "Sass, I don't think guys are that complicated." True. Usually. But Rusty has been quite depressed lately, so acting inappropriately and/or doing something to prove he's not worthy of me isn't terribly surprising, either. So here's an open memo to Rusty: you ARE worthy, stop trying to convince me I'm too good for you. Please.
So in the meantime, I had the opportunity to drive up to the strip club where Rusty works weekends. Terribly interesting... I'm still surprised that there was anything left to surprise me about such places. Of course the only times I've ever been to such establishments, the "rules" were being followed quite strictly--no touching, a certain amount of space between the dancers and patrons, etc. Not here, not that night, anyway. I was terribly amused by the whole thing, though. I was reminded of the scene in American Beauty where Jane is performing the dance with her cheerleading squad in the gym: The band is playing "On Broadway", and she's moving along, doing all the steps technically correct, but with such lack of enthusiasm and an apathetic look on her face it's comical... These girls are just walking around... [shake left, shake right, I'm hungry, stick out my ass, flip my hair, gee what time is it, squeeze tits together, roll on floor, hm pancakes sounds good for breakfast, feet in the air, spread legs, rub thighs, I wonder how late Waffle House is open, roll on stomach...] It was just so soulless and dead. Not that I expected anything more, really, but it was really fucking depressing when you think about it [Freudian typo: abou tit]. No freaking wonder Rusty's so damned depressed after every weekend. I'm sure the money is nice, but the soul-draining atmosphere takes it's toll eventually.
I took the opportunity to wear a top I hadn't had the chance to wear in public yet... extremely low-cut and tight. I felt completely conspicuous. I had to stop for gas on the way there, and wanted to run and hide. I stopped at the soda fountain to get some caffeine, and there were 2 young guys getting drinks, too. They were fumbling and loitering around, mumbling to each other but not doing much. I had to reach around Guy #1, as he was speaking to his friend, and he turned quickly and looked at me, and immediately dropped the lid he was holding, voice cracking and squeaking. He tried to be nonchalant and just get another one, but they were stuck together and further attempts sent them flying in all directions. I finished filling my cup and discovered that the lids I needed were stored under the fountain, about a foot off the ground. I could see trouble a mile away, but I did it anyway: I bent over to get it and their conversation just stopped. You could hear a pin drop. Well, you could hear his lid drop. Again. I just snapped that fucker on and high-tailed it to the counter. I put my soda down on the counter and asked the clerk where their bathrooms are. He was looking down at the soda on the counter, and lifted his eyes to my bare cleavage and spoke to my tits like they were sentient: "We don't have any." "You don't have bathrooms?" His eyes didn't move. "No, sorry." I looked down to make sure I hadn't accidentally stuffed an AK-47 in my shirt between The Girls, but no, just heaving woman-flesh. I took a step back away from the counter and his eyes followed them. "OK, thanks." I swear I could have robbed the place and nobody would be able identify my face.
So imagine my surprise when I saw another woman wearing the same shirt yesterday at lunch. She didn't look slutty at all. Her boobs weren't nearly as big as mine, granted, but she was not small by any standard. Rusty tried to tell me I didn't look slutty, either. Ha. When men forget how to speak English and need drug therapy to look away from your bosom, you can bet you're looking pretty slutty.
So in the meantime, I had the opportunity to drive up to the strip club where Rusty works weekends. Terribly interesting... I'm still surprised that there was anything left to surprise me about such places. Of course the only times I've ever been to such establishments, the "rules" were being followed quite strictly--no touching, a certain amount of space between the dancers and patrons, etc. Not here, not that night, anyway. I was terribly amused by the whole thing, though. I was reminded of the scene in American Beauty where Jane is performing the dance with her cheerleading squad in the gym: The band is playing "On Broadway", and she's moving along, doing all the steps technically correct, but with such lack of enthusiasm and an apathetic look on her face it's comical... These girls are just walking around... [shake left, shake right, I'm hungry, stick out my ass, flip my hair, gee what time is it, squeeze tits together, roll on floor, hm pancakes sounds good for breakfast, feet in the air, spread legs, rub thighs, I wonder how late Waffle House is open, roll on stomach...] It was just so soulless and dead. Not that I expected anything more, really, but it was really fucking depressing when you think about it [Freudian typo: abou tit]. No freaking wonder Rusty's so damned depressed after every weekend. I'm sure the money is nice, but the soul-draining atmosphere takes it's toll eventually.
I took the opportunity to wear a top I hadn't had the chance to wear in public yet... extremely low-cut and tight. I felt completely conspicuous. I had to stop for gas on the way there, and wanted to run and hide. I stopped at the soda fountain to get some caffeine, and there were 2 young guys getting drinks, too. They were fumbling and loitering around, mumbling to each other but not doing much. I had to reach around Guy #1, as he was speaking to his friend, and he turned quickly and looked at me, and immediately dropped the lid he was holding, voice cracking and squeaking. He tried to be nonchalant and just get another one, but they were stuck together and further attempts sent them flying in all directions. I finished filling my cup and discovered that the lids I needed were stored under the fountain, about a foot off the ground. I could see trouble a mile away, but I did it anyway: I bent over to get it and their conversation just stopped. You could hear a pin drop. Well, you could hear his lid drop. Again. I just snapped that fucker on and high-tailed it to the counter. I put my soda down on the counter and asked the clerk where their bathrooms are. He was looking down at the soda on the counter, and lifted his eyes to my bare cleavage and spoke to my tits like they were sentient: "We don't have any." "You don't have bathrooms?" His eyes didn't move. "No, sorry." I looked down to make sure I hadn't accidentally stuffed an AK-47 in my shirt between The Girls, but no, just heaving woman-flesh. I took a step back away from the counter and his eyes followed them. "OK, thanks." I swear I could have robbed the place and nobody would be able identify my face.
So imagine my surprise when I saw another woman wearing the same shirt yesterday at lunch. She didn't look slutty at all. Her boobs weren't nearly as big as mine, granted, but she was not small by any standard. Rusty tried to tell me I didn't look slutty, either. Ha. When men forget how to speak English and need drug therapy to look away from your bosom, you can bet you're looking pretty slutty.
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