(Note from Saxbeat: This was narrated to me by my good friend, the
very lucky Pierre LePerdre, from his diaries. So while it may not be my
original work, I think it does fail to suck.)

ASSC: AFTSD - Diary of P.L.

My name is Pierre LaPerdre, and I thought that on this A Fail To
Suck Day, my diaries may be of interest to ASSCers, so read
on....


Friday, June 13, 1997

It's Friday, the thirteenth, and my luck is truly bad today. My
dog died this morning. My boss told me that they are having
cutbacks at work, and I may be "on the list." Lastly, when I get
home and log into e-mail, there is a message from my
girlfriend breaking up with me. I am bummed.

I sit in front of the TV, watching "Singled Out" on MTV and
reading the sports section (Damn, the Dodgers are looking good
going into the All Star break!). In the corner of the page, I
notice something I've never paid attention to: An ad for a strip
club. In fact, I notice as I scan the page, there are many of
them. One of them stands out: I'll call it Bill's Sophisticated
Dame in Van Nuys. Maybe this is what I need to change my luck.

Next thing I know, I'm in my car heading out to Van Nuys. What a
shitty part of the city this is! I find Bill's after getting a
little lost. (Mental note: Stop at Target and pick up dog hair
remover.)

I've never been in a strip club before this, so I don't know what
to expect. I figure it will be like a bachelor party, only more
so. Perhaps less raunchy. Although it's Friday night, the place
is kind of quiet. There is a girl on stage with her legs spread,
but no one is paying much attention. Lots of girls everywhere I
look, but nothing that knocks me out.

Still, it's kind of neat.

I take a seat and order a Diet Coke from a passing waitress.
Geez, the drinks are expensive here! I tip her 50 cents and she
gives me a dirty look. What does she expect?

After half an hour or so, I get a feel for the place. The stage
shows don't vary a whole lot, and there is a lot of pressure from
the DJ to order a private dance, whatever that is, from a girl.
He says they have "full nude" or something called "lap dances,"
but I figure I'm just going to watch the stage tonight.

And then *She* comes on the stage: A vision of total beauty; a
short, dark, lithe body, taut as a taffy pull, and angular as a
Picasso (post-Blue period), with a succulent ass shaped like an
errant peach. Her dark blonde hair, cut in a modified pageboy,
curls against her jaw, and her sparkling blue eyes cut through
the room, piercing me to the soul. She looks at me, and we
connect in a Big Way. She comes over to me, and as she looks down
on me, I feel my heart melt.

After her set, she comes over and offers me a private dance,
which I readily accept. We go back to the room, and she asks if I
want a nude dance or a lap dance. I ask her what the difference
is, and she says if I don't know, I want a lap dance. They're
$30, and nude dances are $20, but she says laps are totally worth
the difference in price.

The music starts and she straddles me. She looks deep into my
eyes with that look she has, and the next thing I know, I'm
sailing over fields of Elysium (not the one in Topanga!) and
transported to places I've never been. I'm truly in heaven.

We talk about things, and get to know each other a little. She
says a lot of stuff that I think as flattery at first, but as I
get to know her, I become more convinced is sincere. She tells me
I smell nice, that I seem like a nice guy, that she can tell by
the way I walk that I'm a woman's man, no time to talk... that I
must be some kind of lover... She seems genuinely distressed
about my dog, and my girlfriend. (I don't tell her about my job,
yet.)

I'm amazed by her gentleness, and by the warmth and closeness of
the entire thing. I was expecting something raunchy, perhaps even
sexually stimulating, but what we are doing is much closer to
"just" cuddling.

And how's this for a coincidence: Her name is Friday.

After about half an hour has passed, she tells me she has to go
back on stage, and I have to "settle up" with her. There is a
moment of awkwardness when she tells me I owe $300 for 10 dances
(was it that many? I lost count.) I didn't realize that each song
counted as one dance! Shit. Fortunately, they have an ATM in the
place, and I'm easily able to get the needed money.

I get a little depressed about the cost of the whole thing, but
before I leave I find out she's working again next Friday, and
make plans to see her.


Friday, June 20

All day long -- hell, all week -- I've been nervously
anticipating this night. It hasn't even bothered me that they had
lay-offs in the office. I didn't get hit in the first round, so
what do I care. The economy is booming, we'll all be able to find
jobs easily.

After work, I stop at the ATM and withdraw $500. It's kind of a
hit for me, especially after last week's unexpected jolt (insult
to injury: the club has a $5 ATM fee, plus 2% "surcharge" -- is
that even legal?). But I certainly don't want a tight wallet to
get in the way of my relationship.

I walk into Bill's and Friday practically shrieks, "Pierre!" and
runs over to see me. She makes such a fuss, hugging me and
kissing me, I feel as though we are old friends. Normally, I
don't make much of an impression on women, but Friday and I have
connected unlike ever before. She makes a big scene, and the
dancers and few customers seem to be looking at us, with bemused
smiles on their faces as though they are happy for my good luck.
I didn't expect clubs to be such friendly places.

Fortunately, it's just in time for Friday's stage set, and she
spends a good part of each song in front of me, smiling, and
showing me her charms. I sit at the stage for the first time in
my short clubbing career, and proudly leave her $20 for the two
songs she dances.

After her set, Friday takes forever to get freshened up and come
to my table. I see her head poke out from the backstage curtain a
few times, as she points out several dancers to me, no doubt
showing them her "new friend." I can't believe I'm making such a
favorable impression on her.

When she finally comes over to me, I can barely stand it. Did I
tell you she's beautiful? I won't even dare to compare her to a
summer's evening, no matter what day of the week. She escorts me
back to the lap dance room, and I spend some more time talking to
her and enjoying her company. She is a great conversationalist,
and I feel as though I am really getting to know her. She is into
a lot of different things, including shopping and palm-reading.
She is a student at the local community college, where she is
struggling to get a degree in psychology. She really wants to
help people. Surprisingly, I find out that she doesn't make a lot
of money stripping. The skimpy costumes she wears eat up what
meager income she makes, and the club takes a big chunk every
night. Some months she has to struggle to make rent, or pay her
bills.

In no time, we've spent another half hour or more -- this time my
"bill" is $360! Ouch. Friday is pleased to see that I didn't come
short-handed this time.

In the short time we've spent together, I feel as though we've
become very close, and I tell her. For a moment, she looks sad,
or even confused, but then she smiles and says, "Do you really?
I've felt it too, but I wasn't sure. So many of the guys in here
are real jerks." I feel stupid that I'd never thought of it
before: Of course! Her job can't be very pleasant all the time,
although she and the other girls seem to enjoy their work.

Before I even realize what I'm saying, I blurt out something
like, "I really like you. I hope you don't think I'm a jerk.
Would you like to go out with me sometime?"

Friday pouts a little and replies, "I'd really like to, but I
have a boyfriend right now. But we could be friends."

Well, I admit it hurt a little, but I guess I was rushing things.
I tell her "Sure," and she goes off to do her stage set. I notice
she seems a little distracted, and doesn't pay as much attention
to me, even though I tip her $20 for each of her two songs. I
wait well over an hour after her stage set, and she never
approaches me again, even when the weekly feature dancer is on
stage, and all the dancers are just sitting around bored.

Finally, I approach her and tell her I'd like some more dances.
She seems really surprised. "Do you need to go to the ATM?" She
asks. I explain I'd just like some of her nude dances, and she
seems surprised again that I don't want laps. I tell her to set
the meter to five dances, since I only have a hundred dollars
left, and she seems happy, not angry, about having to limit
herself.

Unfortunately, her dances are a little detached and almost sad.
They are not nearly as erotic as her earlier stage performances.
After she finishes the last dance, I ask her if everything is
okay, and she says it is. Then, suddenly, she is sobbing in my
arms!

It turns out that mentioning her boyfriend earlier had started a
whole train of thought about her unsatisfactory life, and as she
dwelt more and more on it, she became disturbed by the fact that
her rent was due the next day, and her unemployed boyfriend had
just told her he couldn't make the rent. She was going to be $800
short! Before I knew what I was saying, I volunteered to loan her
the money. I went to my car and grabbed my checkbook, and wrote
her a check for the full amount. It may seem impetuous, but I pride
myself on being the kind stranger women like Friday depend on. She 
had me write the check to her landlord, so she wouldn't have to 
wait for it to clear. It was weird that her landlord lived in her
building, too, but I decided not to say anything about it -- she 
seemed so volatile that night! The funniest part was when I gave her 
the check, she said, "Wow. Your name really is Pierre?!?" Like, duh.

Needless to say, she was really grateful. She even gave me an
extra private dance for free.

As I leave, she asks if I'll be back next Friday, and it is then
that I realize what I've done. Geez... 800 simolians! "Probably
not," I reply, and the pout on her face is so acute, I add,
"We'll see," and she brightens right up again.

It makes me happy just to know she's happy, too.


Wednesday, June 25

I've been unable to get Friday out of my mind. Her body is in all
my dreams. Her face fills my waking moments. I even think about
her mind, her personality, her sparkling intellect. I can't wait 
for her to read my palm! I hit my savings account for $160, and
stop by Bill's on the way home. (Friday's other regular night is
Wednesday.)

I wait around the club for a long time, but don't see her, and
finally ask the waitress if Friday is in. It turns out she's
having car problems, and won't make it, since she has to get a
new car. As I'm getting ready to leave, a tall, dark-haired
dancer whose name I still won't mention approaches me. I'm a bit
surprised when she asks if I'm Friday's friend. I don't even
remember seeing her before. She tells me that Friday told her all
about me, and what a nice guy I am. I'll cut to the chase and
tell you that she wound up convincing me to get a lap dance from
her, and it was nothing like Friday's! It was totally erotic and
raunchy; she took her top off, and even showed me her pussy at
one point, briefly. But more amazing was the contact... it was
nothing like Friday's slow cuddle. This girl was definitely
trying to get me off, with a hard, vibrant dry-humping. She even
grabbed my wood through my pants and stroked me! In less than one
song, I shocked myself by cumming, hard, as she rode me. I gave
the dancer two twenties and told her I'd had enough.

I stumbled out the door and went home to a very cold, long bath.


Friday, June 27

F*ckin' A, is Friday pissed! She heard I got some dances from her
"friend," and she is so livid she can barely talk to me. We
straighten things out when I tell her I only went to Bill's to
see her, got talked into the dance, and only spent $40, but
Friday is still not happy. I feel totally guilty for arousing her
jealousy, and even the $300 I drop on her (hit savings again,
ouch!) isn't enough to brighten her mood.

When I mention that the other dancer's lap dances were more, um,
visceral, Friday calls her a slut, and says she doesn't do that
kind of dance. Then she slams me: "If you're looking for a whore,
why don't you drive down Sepulveda?" I tell her that's not what I
mean at all... she tells me I shouldn't compare peaches and
oranges, then.

The evening is tense and sucks. I'm half-thinking that maybe I
should quit this whole strip-club enterprise, when at the end of
the night Friday drops in my lap and apologizes. "Sorry I've been
such a bitch," she says, "but I'm PMS-ing big time. Let me make
it up to you... do you wanna go shopping with me tomorrow?"

Yesss! She wants to see me outside the club! We quickly make
arrangements (meet at the Northridge Fashion Center food court
Saturday at 3 p.m.) and when I leave it's as though we're the
best of friends again.


Saturday, June 28

I show up at the food court a little early for my date with
Friday. Big mistake. I wait and wait and wait. Maybe she's gonna
stand me up? Finally, I'm about to give up, when at around
quarter after 5, she shows up all out of breath. Turns out she
screwed up and went to the wrong mall!!! Glad that's fixed.

We spend about four hours shopping at Nordstrom's, finding out we
have much the same taste in clothes: expensive! We have a lot of
fun in the dressing room, as Friday takes great delight in
walking out into the store with no top on, or flashing me various
views of her naughty bits, especially when other customers are
around. She is quite the exhibitionist! Friday tries on
everything in the Brass Plum, and buys about half of it; or I
should say, I buy, because I of course put everything on my card.
When they tally up the bill for everything they've been holding
at the desk, I'm shocked to hear the clerk say something like,
"That comes to four-thousand, eight hundred, seventy-two dollars
and sixty-eight cents, Mr. LaPerdre. Sign here, please, sir."

I panic for a moment, but smile and sign anyway. I know I can pay
this off in a couple of months. It's worth it to see the big
smile on Friday's face. She is so sweet.

I walk her out to her car, and it's a brand new Jeep CJ. No
wonder she has trouble paying her rent, with a new car and fancy
clothing tastes, poor thing! Unfortunately, she is too tired from
shopping to be able to make dinner, and turns down my offer to
follow her back to her apartment to help her carry her stuff up.
"You're so nice to offer," she says, "But I can take care of myself."


July

July passed in a blur, so I've lumped it all together. I was
spending more and more time at the club, and seeing Friday,
mostly for shopping, although I also helped her get some work
done on her Jeep (it needed a turbocharger), and making some
phone calls to convince her cell phone company that her cell
phone really had been stolen, then retrieved by the police,
during the time that a bunch of calls were made to Europe from
Denver.

I have to admit, I was enjoying the club visits less. After
clearing out my savings accounts and taking cash advances on
credit cards, each expenditure seemed selfish: After all, when I
was in the club, I was spending money for my pleasure, when I
really needed the money to keep my debts down, and to keep aside
in case Friday needed anything.

By now, Friday was willing to go out to dinner with me, and we
spent several long, memorable evenings at Spago's, Pinot Bistro,
Campanile, Katsu, and several of my favorite fancy restaurants.
The girl can eat! And she can drink, too. I was amazed at her
knowledge of fine wines, and will never forget the $400 of French
Merlot we downed one evening at the Hotel Bel-Air restaurant.
Indescribable.

The big moment of course, was Friday's birthday, July 25. I
wanted it to be fun, so every hour that night, I had a bigger and
bigger bouquet of roses delivered to the club. A single rose at
the start of her shift, at 8, then a dozen at 9, two dozen at 10,
four dozen at 11. When I sauntered into the club at midnight,
with TEN dozen roses, a big cake and a teddy bear almost as big
as she was, the place was buzzing with mystery, because each
bouquet I'd had signed, "From your biggest admirer."

When I entered, the entire club broke into applause, and we all
sang "Happy Birthday" to Friday.

It was a moment I'll never forget, and she came over and
smothered me with kisses. The other dancers looked so envious,
but none so much as the tall, dark-haired dancer who had once
called Friday her friend.

Sure enough, when Friday was backstage, getting ready for her
set, the dark-haired dancer -- I'll call her Kali -- came up to
me. "I know it's none of my business," she began, "but Friday is
making a fool out of you. She is using you for your money. All
she wants is your credit cards, and she'll suck you dry until
there's nothing left. She's backstage right now, laughing at what
a foolish sucker you are, and throwing your roses in the trash.
She doesn't even have a boyfriend. She just takes the stuff you
buy for her back to Nordstrom's and gets your money back so she
can go clubbing and buy E. You'll probably hate me for telling
you this, but I can't stand to see her do this to another nice
guy."

I was stunned. I sat there for a moment, then told Kali that she
was totally wrong. I told her that what she was saying might be
true for other dancers, but not "my" Friday. We had become close
friends, I told Kali, and Friday had even paid me back a hundred
dollars of the rent I had lent her.

Kali looked at me with condescending pity in her eyes. "Look,"
she said, "I'll bet you don't even know her real name. It's not
Friday; it's Irene. Ask her." And Kali got up and left.

Now, I was really stunned. Her REAL name? It had never occurred
to me that Friday was not her real name. I sat there in a
confused whirl. My mind was spinning. I could barely breathe.

When Friday's stage set began, I was in a state nearing total
panic. As she came over to me, leaned in and whispered in my ear,
"Thanks, honey, for making my birthday so special" I couldn't
help myself.

"Is... y-y-your... r-r-real... n-n-name... I-I-I-Irene?" I stammered.

Friday stopped dead in her tracks.

BITCH! she screamed. MOTHERF*CKING, C*CKSUCKING, LYING BITCH!!!
She ran off the stage in a fury, and I could hear a bunch of
yelling and screaming -- some of it about me -- going on between
Kali and Friday. A bunch of bouncers, dancers and management ran
toward the dressing room. The place was bedlam, chaos, total
commotion. I could hear slapping and thuds, and more screaming,
and when I finally looked around the club, everyone NOT in the
dressing room was looking at ME. "Dude," said the guy sitting
next to me, "What did you say to her?"

I got up and walked out of the club.


Friday, August 2

After that day, I called in sick to work for a week. I was so
depressed, I thought about lying down on the Metrolink track, but
when I walked out there, they'd put up new fences, so I couldn't
do it. I thought of sitting in my car with the engine running,
but I don't have a garage, only a car port, so that wouldn't
work. Finally, I just got up, and went into work on Monday
(August 3), and sat at my desk, doing nothing. With all the
layoffs, work was slow, so no one even noticed that I didn't do
anything.


Friday, August 16

At the end of the second week back at work, I had finally gotten
my mind back to a state approaching normalcy. I realized that
Kali was right: I'd been an idiot. What was I thinking? Nearly 40
thousand dollars down the tubes, my savings gone, my debt reeling
from all the cash advances... and what did I have to show for it?
Not that I was trying to buy either sex or friendship, of course,
but in every relationship, there has to be some kind of
exchange.... and I'd gotten nothing but erotically bereft lap
dances.

I was sitting there at my desk, finally feeling my head clear of
the cobwebs of lies and deceit and stupidity that had been
building up since I first visited the club, when my boss walked
in, gave me a little pep talk about how great an employee I'd
been, how critical I'd been to the company, how willing he was to
give me a good reference at any time.... and he handed me my pink
slip.

Shit.


Saturday, August 17

I'm lying in my dark room. I haven't eaten, slept, or even pissed
since I got home last night. I'm lying on top of my bed, with all
my clothes on, wondering if it is possible to commit suicide by
inducing one's own bladder to burst. The phone rings.

It's her.

She's missed me, she cries. At first, she didn't blame me for
leaving the club, but when I didn't return the next week, or the
next, or the next... she got scared. She realized how much she
really needed me. Kali had been right, she had used me at first,
but then she really got to like me, really appreciated me,
really... she paused, for a long time... loved me.

Her real name *is* Irene, it turns out, and the first time I use
it in a sentence after that night at the club, was to ask,
"Irene, will you marry me?"

After a really long pause, she answers yes, and asks me if I'll
meet her at a nearby Thai restaurant so we can talk in person.
We agree to meet in an hour, and I quickly stop at Zales to pick
up a ring for her. Three hours later, she finally shows up,
ragged and wearing sweats, her hair a mess, no makeup, dirty
tennis shoes.

"Is this what you want to marry?" she asks.

"Yes," I reply, and show her the ring.


Epilogue

We were married in September, in a small ceremony conducted by
one of the dancers from Bill's who -- it turns out -- has some
kind of Church of Life permit that lets her conduct weddings. Our
guests were a motley crew of dancers from Bill's, some of my work
buddies, and my brother. My sister and parents -- and Irene's
family, too -- refused to show up. Considering the nice spread we
had, I'm surprised at the lack of nice gifts from anyone... other
than the dancers, who give Irene wads of money.

My brother spent the evening hitting on dancers.

Of course, the "money dance" went over well. Ours was co-ed,
so the dancers paid to dance with me. I've never been fondled so
much in my life. And I made 300 bucks!

I finally got to see Irene's apartment -- on our wedding night.
It's quite the bachelorette pad! She's keeping it for the
"outside" private dances she occasionally does (I was so happy
she was honest enough to tell me about this!), and as a place to
crash on those nights she has to work late and doesn't want to
disturb me.

The toughest thing for me to get used to is that Irene and I still
haven't slept together. It turns out the reason she doesn't do raunchy
lap dances is that she was molested as a child. And while this 
apparently has turned her into an exhibitionist, she remains a
virgin to this day.

And she still dances at Bill's. I don't have any problem with
that, because I know that unlike the other girls, she doesn't get
raunchy with her private dances, and besides, we need the money.
Best of all, Irene has gotten into the feature circuit, where the
really big money is. It's great for her earnings, and her
self-esteem. It sucks that she's on the road so much, though....
sometimes it's a whole month, and they don't cover her phone
expenses, so we don't get to talk much, but she seems so much
happier now.

I've got a new job, too: I was lucky enough to hook up with Bill,
the club owner, at my wedding, and now I'm assistant-managing a
new club Bill just opened in the City of Industry. I always
thought this was brain-dead work, but there is so much to learn!
Irene was a little jealous at first, but she knows she will
always be first in my heart. I'm learning I was really a little
naive when I first started going to clubs, for example, Irene
isn't the only dancer to use what they call a stage name! Most of
them do!!! But I'm picking up fast.

My closing words to you guys and girls out there who think
romance in a strip club isn't possible are: It is, it totally is,
if you are patient, and truly have love in your heart. Anything
is possible... hey, I even heard Kali is seeing one of the
customers from Bill's now.

He bought her a Porsche.

Keep the Faith,

Pierre LaPerdre

--------------------
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