Suckerfish comes to Houston

First, let me open by telling you I currently have a monster yeast infection. The likes of which I haven’t seen since ‘86 when my girlfriend fucked me with a purple candle (ah, young lesbians pre-internet). How did I get this, you ask? I’ll tell you. Let me paint a picture. I arrive in Houston. I change in the bathroom. I add makeup and fake lashes to my face. The bathroom isn’t conducive for such activities, but I make due. I’ve been changing at Houston Hobby for ten years. I wonder how many times I’ve done drugs in that last stall?

I catch a taxi. He doesn’t seem to know where the club is. They never do. The strip club is two and a half miles from the airport. I call bullshit. I give my suitcase to the lady at the front desk. Our regular cocktail waitress whom we’ve known for a couple years (not the OG one; the walking/talking country song…she no longer works there) greets me and takes me to our usual table in the back. I order a double. I see Suckerfish sitting at the round high top. She looks out of place. I walk up. She knows I’m coming. She’s been waiting for me. She doesn’t seem to recognize me. That’s okay. I wouldn’t have spotted her right away either. We were pretty drunk the night we met. I sit down. We catch up. Reacquaint. She arrived earlier that day. Had to spend four hours with The Texan. She’s happy I’m there. Drink comes. I drain most of it. Order another. She asks if I have to pee. Sure, I can always pee. Wink. I hold her hand as I walk her to the bathroom in the dressing room. She’s a cutie pie. Baby face. I find out she’s older than I would have guessed. Still miles younger than moi, but not a twenty-something.

Back at the table, she lays on the sob story. All his other girls got a sob story. Am I the most put together ho that ever lived? I’m being facetious. Says the girl with permanent nerve damage in her foot from her last suicide attempt (pssst, next week is the 14th anniversary). We listen to her and ask poignant questions. We order more drinks and dinner.

My taco salad isn’t shining. I pick at it. Before we leave, I get his credit card and take her to the little stripper store by the front entrance. I tell her to pick out anything (within reason). I also buy the waitress something. I got a cheap little skirt. Suckerfish gets a cool bikini thing. She’s a new dancer and needs stripper gear. I sign the receipt. I’ve been signing his credit card for years.

We leave. Catch an Uber. The drinks made my belly feel warm but my head felt clear. It’s funny, I feel sober and then I don’t. Looking back, I think I took my sleeping pill (Valium) kinda early (which has been my jam as of late) so perhaps the fuzzy drunk parts have more to do with that. I drank a little at the room, but not much. I like that state. I’m fun when I’m sober, but more devil may care and less mother hen in a brown out. Mother hen sucks for everyone except the girl I’m trying to save. We hooked up the porn. They did a little Judy. The mood was light and fun. From what I remember. We piled on the queen bed furthest from the bathroom. In a two-bed room, I always grab the one closest to the bathroom. Like the first night we met, she was all over me. Good kisser. I don’t remember going down on her as much this time. He fucked her while she went down on me. I guess we took turns. You know, a threesome. At one point, she was finger-banging me for a good amount of time while sucking on my nipples (I think I had my vibrator on my clit). I don’t know what he was doing. I was too drunk to come. Plus, unless the person is incredibly tuned in to my body, I can’t come that way. Too much going on. This is how we get to the opening of this tale…she had acrylics and due to my state, I didn’t make her wash her hands first. And that, ladies and gents, is how I woke up two days later with a sick pussy. No more fingers. Fuck fingers. Dicks and tongues only.

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