Never Go To The Strip Club With Your Boss

Never Go To The Strip Club With Your Boss

I almost titled this, “Never Go To The Strip Club Ever,” but we all know that’s just not going to happen. This is free life advice for those of you who either just entered the workforce, or those who are naive enough to believe that partying with naked chicks and the guy who signs your paycheck is a good idea. I can’t stress this enough: Don’t do it.

You may be thinking, “What if I don’t have a choice? I can’t just tell the guy no.” You always have a choice, and yes, you can just tell that guy “No.” As you may have guessed, there’s a story here. It’s not my story, but I was granted full exclusive license to share it with the masses. So now, without further adieu, here is complete and true account of my buddy’s nightmare trip to titter.

I had no idea my boss was a human diaper. Before that fateful night, I looked up to that guy. He was a married, father of three that took a chance on a kid right out of school with no experience in sales whatsoever. That kid was me. That week, we were in Dallas for one of the biggest trade shows of the year. I’d been to Dallas before to visit some friends that went to SMU, but we never made the trip over to the seedy side of town. The side where all that is good goes to die, and all that is evil thrives like me in college.

On our last night, my boss, “Rick,” my coworker, “John,” and I decided to grab steaks to celebrate, because that’s what men do. Just guys being dudes. We killed off two Argentinian Cabs, and then naturally, I was prodded for ideas on where we’d be taking the party next. That comes with the territory when you’re the young gun of the office. I mentioned the only bar I ever remember going to in Dallas: The Barley House. It’s a great bar if you’re in college, not so much if you’re a sales douche bag from out of town rolling with a couple other sales douche bags in their thirties. The thought of being out of place at an SMU bar just sounded awful, so I ended up steering us clear. That was probably a mistake, because naturally, Rick made the executive decision that we were going to “stare at some tits.”

I hate the strip club. The last time I was in Las Vegas, I swore I’d never return to another strip club. I had to spend all day Sunday convincing the bank that the 1500-dollar charge was fraudulent. That was fun. Anyway, apparently Dallas is known for its strip clubs, as Rick went through a list of about seven “prime tit joints” that his dirt bag friends were sending him. We settled on one across town, hopped in the Uber, and our drunk asses were off into the night.

That Uber ride had to have ruined John’s star rating, as Rick decided to take control of the poor driver’s stereo and blare his gym playlist. Nothing says strip club like Nelly, “Number 1.” When we arrived, Rick insisted on VIP. I don’t know what that ran him, but I’m sure it wasn’t cheap. I remember thinking, “At least we’re not sitting out amongst the common scum. We’re very important scum.” It ended up being our downfall. Rick’s true colors came out that night.

Within minutes, Rick had already asked our waitress for 2 bottles, and complained that the girls weren’t friendly. Oh, he also asked her why she wasn’t dancing, because she was “just as hot as the other chicks.” The guy was on fire. I guess it worked, though, because within minutes, we had a group of blood thirsty strippers all over us. They could smell Rick’s cash, and his desperateness.

Besides the moral hangover, and the whole throwing your money away thing, the worst part about going to a strip club is sitting next to other dudes with boners. I watched Rick immediately start buying up dances right there at the table, and I had to look at his creepy face as he groped some poor girl who’s just paying her way through school, allegedly. That face of drunken pleasure on Rick’s face is one I’ll never forget. Uh, that man had a family at home, and he was just sitting there with a stupid smirk on his face while some down-on-her-luck 20-year-old blew on his dick through his pants.

Then Rick got generous. Even though John and I tried to act like we were having a great time, Rick could sense that we just weren’t on his level. No joke, the next two girls that walked by, Rick physically grabbed them and walked them over to our table. “These two guys need dances. Show them a good time.” Neither girl was particularly attractive, and the one I got stuck with actually had braces. But because I was a team player, I followed her to the back where we could have some privacy. Could’ve been worse, I guess. At least I didn’t have to watch my boss grope women. So I thought.

About midway through the dance, I heard a commotion. I still remember the song that was playing when I saw it: Nelly Furtado’s “Say It Right.” The ultimate strip club song, and there was the ultimate strip club guy, Rick, with his arm draped around the girl he’d thrown at least 500 dollars at throughout the course of the night. It would soon be more. Rick sat down near me and forced me into giving a high five. It was the worst. He clearly thought he was the coolest boss on the planet, but I couldn’t felt like more of a tool.

As Rick and his girl sat there, watching me get a dance while they waited for a new song to start, Rick boldly requested, and I quote, “Can we do this somewhere else? I don’t want my employee watching what’s about to happen.” Dude, what? This was maximum Rick. He had single-handedly taken down an entire bottle of Grey Goose, and all of the cranberry that accompanied it, and now he was taking things to the next level. Rick was a trick. I was shocked. Any blood flow I might’ve had in my dirty parts immediately shot back to my other brain. I worked for a scum bag.

I went back to the table where I sat by myself for what felt like an eternity. John and Rick were both MIA, and I wanted nothing to do with each succubus that approached. “No, I’m good.” I must’ve aggressively uttered that at least 10 times while I waited for those guys. When they returned, Rick had the most disgustingly arrogant smirk on his face, and John just looked hammered. I was hammered, too, but more so in a depressed drunk kind of way.

I never looked at my boss the same after that. There’s just something about watching a guy get grinded on that really makes you look at him differently. That and the fact that I’m pretty sure he paid for sex that night. That also changed everything. At least he picked up the tab.

Image via Shutterstock

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