22 March 2003 ~ Down wid O.P.P. in Pierce County...

I remember there was this stand-up comic once who commented that it's really a sorry state of affairs in the world when you're flipping through the TV Guide, and you see "War Coverage" listed. "Oh look, honey!" said the comic, "The WAR is on!"

The war is on.

So, the other day, Jake and I decided to leave the house and the television behind. We decided we should have an adventure. "What should we do?" he asked. I grinned a wicked grin. "I think," I said mischievously, "That we should go to Pierce County."

Pierce County, the next county over, is home to Tacoma. That's all it's really known for. Tacoma sucks my transparent white ass. Look up any crazed killer in the United States, and they've probably lived in Tacoma at one point or another. Yes, really. But there are a few cool things in Pierce County. Last week, Jake and I explored a sweet little town called Steilacoom (pronounced "STILL-ih-cum," and yes, you are free to make cracks about that...), and then ate big greasy cheeseburgers in Lakewood. That was cool. After that day, we decided that we ought to be able to find SOME sort of adventure in Pierce County.

We found Hooters.

The restaurant, kids, the restaurant.

I'd been to a Hooters once, in Syracuse, NY. I ordered chicken wings. They were the grossest wings I'd ever had: small, tasteless greasy things. The bleu cheese had visible mold in it (which was unmistakably grey, not blue), and the cream for my coffee was so curdled that it wouldn't come out of the little plastic cup... I told Jake I hated Hooters. I explained why. But once he'd seen those big round "O's,' there was no dissuading him.

"All right," I said, "YOU go in for the wings. I will go in to look at boobies."

At that, Jake declared his undying love for me about a billion and a half times. For a second, as the word "boobies" left my mouth, I thought I saw his eyes well up with tears of joy.

Really, boobies aren't all that important to me. I mean, I HAVE two of them. I look at them several times a day: changing my clothes, showering, screwing around, et cetera... And I'm really quite pleased with them, so I haven't got any reason to be insecure around other women's boobies... I'm not especially interested in other women's boobies, but it is sort of an adventure to go to another county and see scantily-clad women serving Pepsis and buffalo wings. It's not something you see every day. It IS sort of interesting.

The place actually smelled good when we got in there, and our waitress (who was wearing way too much eyeshadow, and who looked about thirteen, except for her large, ill-concealed boobies...) announced that wings were 25 cents apiece during happy hour, and we'd arrived just on time. So Jake and I both ordered wings (although I really did have my misgivings...) To my surprise, the food wasn't actually bad. (I wouldn't quite classify it as GOOD, but you know what I mean...)

Well, Jake was just absolutely in heaven.

No, really, he was. You've never seen a man happier than this. I could have said to Jake: "I will give you a million dollars, I will take you off probation, I will magically give you a perfect body and a long healthy life, but you must trade in this afternoon at Hooters, watching boobies with your fiancée," and Jake would have laughed in your face. Hell no, Jake would have said: I got my fiancée, I got greasy food, and I got lots of chicks in tiny little shirts wandering around serving me food...

You see, I really do love this man. But really, he is a MAN. As in, all the attendant stereotypes that go with that.

"...I'm your average white, suburbanite slob... I like football, and pornos, and books about war..." -- Denis Leary, "Asshole."

You know what I mean.

*smile*

I was the only woman in Hooters. I mean, the only woman who was wearing all her clothes. I got a LOT of weird looks. "WHAT!?" I felt like yelling. "Like I've never seen boobies before? Why are you looking at me!?"

I mentioned this to the waitress: "You don't get a lot of girls eating here, huh?" The waitress, who did not appear to be the brightest crayon in the box, told me that women are often terribly offended by the place. Women diners, said the waitress, often think the waitresses are moving in on their men. I nodded, sort of. I guess I don't really understand that. I couldn't have cared less if the waitress was or was not moving in on Jake. I happen to be quite secure with Jake's love for me, and I know damn well that a flirty girl with big boobies isn't going to wreck my relationship with him. Jake loves boobies, sure. But I feel quite strongly that Jake loves me more.

I said to the waitress: "Jake is testing me to make absolutely sure I'd make good wife-material." The waitress looked sort of blank. "To make sure I'm secure around a place like this." I purposely did not say, "around a lot of chicks with ill-concealed boobies." You never know what's going to offend somebody. There was always the slight chance that the waitress didn't notice her tits were flopping out of her shirt, and her shorts were riding up into her rectum....

Jake was not so sensitive. Jake said: "Next, I'm gonna take her to a strip club."

The waitress did not take offense. I think the waitress might have been a little too dumb to take offense. Sometimes, despite being a proponent of anti-stupidity legislation, I really appreciate stupid people. Or at least moderately stupid people. Our waitress was great.

We paid the bill. Jake tipped excessively. And I asked, "are we really going to a strip club?"

"Do you want to go to The Player's Club, or Déjà Vu?"

"I dunno. It's up to you... It's not like I'm intimately associated with either place or anything..."

We went first to The Player's Club. A very, very old Asian woman was doing a slow, half-hearted, high-heeled prance to the beat of a Michael Jackson song. I watched with interest. I hope my cellulite isn't that visible when I'm her age. I hope I'm not a stripper when I'm her age, come to think of it. And the whole Michael Jackson thing really kinda killed it for me. We went to Déjà Vu instead.

I had been to exactly one strip club in my life before the other day. It's one of my fondest memories, really, despite how stupid that sounds. Aaron and I went to a sleazy place called The Tiger's Den in Johnson City (shut down shortly thereafter; evidently, one of the strippers refused to stop bringing her 12-year-old daughter to work with her...). A stripped called Destiny smeared her boobs all over my face, Aaron got the biggest erection in the history of manhood and had to jerk off in an alley, and good old 99.1 WAAL played "Big Balls" by AC/DC as we drove away. The boob-smearing wasn't all that great (ew! boob-grease on my glasses!), but it was one of the funniest nights I had EVER lived through...

And as I said, I really couldn't care less about naked women around me. I have boobs, myself, as well as female genitalia. I regularly see these body parts, so it's not like I'm horrified in any way by them. A strip club is like a ballet, only the ballerinas are naked. Plus, they always have cute underwear on at the beginning, and I'm a sucker for cute underwear. You should see my dresser drawers. AND, it's fascinating to see them try to maneuver in those huge heels...

Also, as I said, I really don't care if Jake looks at other girls' boobies, either. From my experiences with persons of the straight male persuasion, I have learned that most of these guys are almost always looking at other women's boobies anyway. Or thinking about other women's boobies. I KNOW that Jake is a rabid hornball; we may as well look at boobies together, right? If I got all freaked out that my lover was checking out other boobies, he'd just do it behind my back. And if there's one thing I abhor, it's dishonesty. And sneakiness. Really, we may as well enjoy boobies together. It's so much nicer than staying home watching Lifetime movies and worrying, while Jake secretly enjoys a covert night of non-Helena boobies. That wouldn't be good for either one of us.

And really, sex is sex. It feels good, people do it, and life is generally grand. Right? Well, it feels a whole hell of a lot better to wake up in the morning in bed with your very best friend, knowing that you're safe and loved. That's better than ANY sex I've ever had. I don't confuse sex with love, and I don't think Jake does, either. Between the two of us, we have approximately 100 past lovers, and after all of that, I think we both kind of know better. So, if Jake wants to watch naked girls in strip clubs, or stare at naked internet girls, then so be it. I am loved, and that's about all that matters to me. It doesn't hurt much that Jake, who happens to have made his appearance as the love of my life, also magically stars as the best lover I've ever had. It doesn't hurt, you see, but it's not the most important thing by a long shot.

So, Jake and I watched naked girls. It was really quite entertaining. Of course, being mostly straight, and not being one of those lucky people who is sexually stimulated visually, I didn't exactly lose my head with lust. Instead of drooling, I watched intently until I had a semi-snide comment to make:

"Psst... Jake... Watch when this girl bends over again... You can see halfway up to her uterus..."

"Psst... Jake... That girl with the six piercings in her labia? I bet screwing her would be like having your genitals behind bars..."

"Psst... Jake... I think this one REALLY, REALLY likes you..."

Jake, who WAS drooling, did seem to appreciate my remarks. He giggled, at least. So, the women on stage, over whom Jake was obviously having a lust-fit, were not HIS women, not there for HIS benefit, but for OURS. There are few better things in the world than giggling with a best friend at a strip club...

I sat on one of his hands while he received lap-dances from two of the women. The women themselves seemed pretty freaked out about ME. One of them said, to me, "just tell me if I do anything you don't like..." I was like, "hey, do whatever you gotta do..." Jake, with his hand on my rump and the rest of his body being attended to by a lovely, mostly-naked blonde, had his eyes rolled back in his head from the sheer bliss of it all. I giggled. My fiancé is one of the smartest individuals I know, but in a state like that, he doesn't know his own phone number. And that's not an exaggeration; I've tested him.

Of course, there's a no-touching rule in strip clubs. The men (or lesbians, or kinky straight girls) are not allowed to touch the dancers. Jake, however, struck up a conversation with his favorite dancer, and HAPPENED to mention that he gave excellent back massages. Jake was the only guy in the club that night who got to stroke one of the ladies... I mean, he didn't get to stroke anything really interesting on her, but still... oh, if anyone else had seen this procedure, Jake would have been the envy of the club... Jake, that asshole, is pretty suave. He can make, "ya come here often?" sound romantic. He can charm the ladies any old place he goes. I personally find this amusing, because, while Jake genuinely is a sweet, romantic, badassed fellow, he's also a huge dork. And a Trekkie. And a Doctor Who fanatic. *I* know this. Strippers do not know this. THIS is why I am secure in our relationship. Enough, that is, to watch Jake get a lapdance from another female.

After about a billion hours of watching boobies and conversing with the nice stripper girl, Jake and I went home. He grinned. I grinned at him. We both grinned together.

The next morning, I woke up in bed with my best friend, feeling safe and warm and loved.

*smile*

Love,
~Helena*