“Trust me.  You’re gonna be glad you drank all of these,” Chad said as he handed me yet another beer.

Well that didn’t sound encouraging.  I asked why.

“Oh…you’ll see....”

So, I kept drinking. 

I was leaving for Los Angeles in two days, and my friends wanted to give me a little going away party. 

We were headed to Shotgun Willy’s, a dumpy strip club in my home state of South Dakota where the women there are trashy, and proud of it.  They’re the homely high school drop-outs, the 35 year old bikers with tattoos above their crotch that say “Ride or Die”.  The usuals were the drunken cowboy, and the colossal biker, wearing 20-year-old leathers, double-fisting PBR’s, and punching himself in the face for quarters. 

Well, color me excited. 

We pulled into the parking lot.  This place just reeked of panache.  There were trailer parks on both sides of the strip club, and the club itself looked like it was actually three chopped up double-wides all smashed and then welded together.  I think I mentioned something about fire codes, but all my buddies could think about were spread legs, and thick areolas. 

By the time we got to Shotgun’s, I had about 6 beers in me, but the guys didn’t think that was enough.  They had 3 shots already lined up at the bar for me. 

“Don’t ask what they are.  Just drink.” 

Well, who am I to question that…

The stage was cinder blocks under plywood, and I’m sure there was a weight limit that was being ignored by the current dancer.  The lighting was nothing more than a couple lights with orange and blue gels, and the mixture of the two created a creamy, brownish light on the stage.  I found it extremely appropriate. 

Things got exciting quickly as the first dancer stopped spinning in circles, and started screaming at the owner of the strip club.  The DJ kindly turned down the music so we could all hear what was going on, but the only decipherable words coming from either of their mouths were “bitch” and “meatloaf”.  The owner was finally calmed down after another gin & tonic with a splash of verbal bitch-slap from hubby. 

The next dancer came out in full S&M gear.  She actually looked like she could work in a legit strip club; you know, the kind that offers erotic asphyxiation to its customers. 

When she was done, she hopped off the stage, and immediately, a Johnny Cash song starts playing.  Chad & Josh go nuts, clapping, hooting, whistling, but there’s no one on stage yet. 

Chad leaned in towards me with a downright evil look in his eye.  He held a single dollar bill up. 

“I hope you’re ready…for Wendy!” he warned. 

I looked up and in the doorway, I saw Wendy. 

And Wendy’s only goal that night was to destroy me. 

She was 5 foot 4 inches of pure, uncompromising slack-jawed trash-whore.  Over the music, I think Chad said something about her not quite being 60, but that there was no way she was a day under 54 years old.  The lines and wrinkles in her face were outdone only by her sagging arm skin and varicose veins.  She was still very proud of her physique, because she was eager to show off as much flesh as possible by wearing a nearly invisible g-string and see-thru bikini top.  Loose skin was randomly popping out of the edges, and, boy, was she ready to rock!

She took to humping the pole like Popeye to spinach.  Turning around, she backed her ass up against the pole and started sliding up and down as she licked her lips passionately.  Others around the bar were groaning in disgust, but all I could hear was Chad and Josh cheering her on.  They were as giddy as a couple of kids on Christmas morning. 

At first, I think Wendy was a bit disappointed that most of the paying customers b-lined it to the back of the bar, but all that quickly changed when she saw Chad, smiling, holding that dollar bill.  Her eyes lit up, and she strutted over to where we were sitting. 

Wendy squatted down in front of us, setting her crotch at eye level.  I gagged slightly. 

She cooed at Chad as she rubbed her tits: “Hey, gorgeous.  What do you want to see?”

My friends were snickering and laughing.  Chad tried to contain his enthusiasm. 

“Well, you can come back for me in a little bit.”  He pushed the dollar bill in front of me, and then spoke three words that, while so innocent and simple, had consequences far beyond any of our imaginations. 

“It’s his birthday.”

He might as well have just told her that Wal Mart was having a sale on stretch-pants because, she exploded with an enormous, gap-toothed smile. 

“Well all right!!  Happy birthday!  How old are you, big boy?”

I knew I had to lie…I had to avoid this situation.  But I wasn't quick enough. 

“Ah, well, it don’t matter.  We got a birthday boy in the house everyone!” 

Apparently, Wendy’s reputation for celebrating birthdays was known across the tri-state area because the patrons all came running back toward the stage, clapping, and cheering. 

It was at that point that I realized that I was in really deep shit.  Chad passed me one last shot.  I slammed it quickly. 

“Move yer chair back, honey.  I’m gonna need some room to work on you down there.”

I took a deep breath and held it.  It was at this point that time stopped.  The entire bar was fixated on Wendy and me.  My friends were clapping and cheering, but I couldn’t hear them at all. 

Everything was blurry.  Everything was moving in slow motion.  Everything except Wendy, who had leapt off of the stage and was currently flying towards me.  For a sickeningly old stripper, she was actually pretty spry and able to catch some pretty good air.  Before I could brace for impact, this feisty little golden-girl was making her landing. 

As she landed in my lap, our crotches met with a beautiful “whooomp”, she whipped off her top, and Wendy was off to the races. 

She was humping me with vigor and fury unlike anything I had ever seen.  And between her g-string, and my jeans and boxers, there was less than a half-inch of fabric separating our naked genitals.  This woman had children, and grand children.  She was around to see the invention of color TV.  She probably voted for Nixon.  In another world, she could have been my grandma, but here she was, grinding her finely aged snatch on me. 

This, it turns out, would be the good part.  She hopped off my lap and stood up

“Get on stage,” she demanded. 

WHAT?  I should have said no.  But I didn’t want to be the big pussy that wouldn’t go because he was scared or embarrassed.  I had heard stories of strip club birthday treatments.  I had even seen a couple.  She would sit me on a chair, do a little more grinding on me, tease me a little, and embarrass me a little and that’d be it.   

I could handle that.  So, reluctantly, I stepped onto the stage with her, but it turns out that karma was not on my side that night. 

“Lay down!” she barked at me. 

What the fuck?  Lay down?  On the stage?  Just what the hell kind of birthday treatment was THIS?  With a shove, she kindly helped me meet the floor.  I had submitted.  This was the point of no return. 

Once again, Wendy’s tits were slapping my face.  Quickly, she moved down and started LICKING my face, then my neck, then my chest, and then she started BITING MY NIPPLES.  NOT GENTLY, NOT PLAYFULLY, SHE WAS BITING, AND PULLING ON MY NIPPLES! 

She stood up and positioned herself over my head, and faster than you could say ‘gramma-snatch’, Wendy dropped to her knees, and straddled my face.  She straddled my face.  She was straddling my goddamn face.  As she moved up and down, I could feel soft, warm flesh on the other side of the thong .

I tried to wake up from this nightmare.  I felt Death pulling on my soul. 

This, however, was not good enough.  She reached down and grabbed my shirt.  With a ferocious tug, and a small tear, she pulled it off.  She bent over and suddenly we were in the 69 position.  I closed my eyes, held my breath, and turned away before I puked. 

Wendy took things up a notch and started slamming her pelvis into my chest.  Her ass was quaking and jiggling like stank Jello.  She started sliding herself up and down on my torso, moving her honey bucket ever so close to my mouth, teasing me with it, and then stealing it away again.  Nausea overcame me.  

Moving on with skill and deftness, she undid the belt on my shorts and unbuttoned them.  I was wearing boxer shorts, but I have no way of knowing if the entire bar was getting full on view of my package.  If I had to guess, I would say that everyone at Shotgun Willy’s that night got to see my dick in all of its scared, retreating glory. 

Had Wendy not been consistently using her Fixodent, I bet that she wouldn’t have been able to rip out the elastic band of my boxer shorts out so easily.  But she did have to use quite a bit of force when she pulled, which left ¾ of my underwear sitting snuggly in my ass crack.  She held the elastic up for the entire bar to see, like a furious warrior holding up the still-beating heart of her enemy. 

Cheers erupted…my friends had tears in their eyes, they were laughing so hard.  Wendy stood up and took a well-deserved bow.  She turned around and threw the pieces of my underwear back to me. 

“Here’s a souvenir.  You can get off the stage now.”

There was no handshake or hug or ‘thanks for being a good sport, kid’.  No, Wendy simply used me and then tossed me away.  I was just a play-thing.

Well, at this point, I was mostly nude, my underwear was torn apart and shoved in my ass, and the odds were good that my cock was hanging out.  I stood up on stage, zipped up my shorts, and looked around for my shirt.  Always the good friend, Chad had grabbed it and tossed it back to me. 

As I stepped off of the stage, people were still clapping and cheering.  With my head hung in defeat, I made my way to the men’s room.  I felt guys patting me on the back and telling me how great that was, but I never looked up or acknowledged them. 

I stepped out and looked at myself in the mirror.  I was a different person now, and things could never go back to the way they were before.  The lines in my face had deepened.  Strands of hair had grayed.  My eyes, once lively and youthful, now sat deep in their sockets, hollow and reticent.  I realized then that women weren’t something to be loved and cherished, but to be fervently feared.

I decided I could make it to the exit without my friends seeing me.  I had my cell phone and I’m sure I could get someone to pick me up.  I was leaving for L.A. and no one here would ever see me again. 

But wait.  This isn’t how my night could end.  This, after all, was MY going away party, and I wasn’t about to spend it sulking in the bathroom or running away.  I fixed my hair and adjusted my clothes. 

I am in control.  I’m the master of my destiny.  I AM Atropos. 

And besides, I still had a fist full of dollars in my pocket and they weren’t going to make it into those g-strings without me.