ALUMNI WEEKEND (PT III)
A true sports underdog story with lots of male nudity.
Part III- “The white male human at his most elemental.”
FRIDAY EVENING (IT HAS BEGUN)
After eating dinner together in a solemn, resigned silence, the rest of the FNGs- Millhouse, Greggypoo, Wifebeater, Combover Pat and I arrive at the Rugby House to receive our orders. I was to drive a van downtown to the Hilton where a contingent of alums were staying. Upon receiving them, I was to drive them to the Diamond Club; a strip club on the outskirts of town where everyone will gather. As miserable as this assignment was, I had no idea how lucky I was until we arrived at the Diamond Club. I didn’t want to be separated from the other FNGs. I didn’t want to be stuck driving a van full of rowdy alums that punched me in the face while I was driving them and their tapped keg. I really didn’t want to have to explain to my first ever girlfriend Sandy why I had to go to a strip club on our one-month anniversary. Sandy was great though. She was only mad because I couldn’t take her too.
The Diamond Club was a fairly large strip club. I had no idea because I had no frame of reference. It was busy too. Standing room only and it wasn’t even midnight yet. A former Norseman happened to run the Diamond Club, which at the time seemed really cool. It’s funny looking back and thinking about everything that seemed cool to me that night that totally wasn’t (like celebrating a one-month anniversary). We rolled several kegs in and set up shop around a side-stage. I was introduced to many alums that seemed very nice and accommodating- nothing like the lizard people the seniors made them out to be.
There was Venner, Head, Shaggy, McDade, Chachi, Ferg, and many others. They all had that subtle, almost pheromonal scent of men who lived comfortable lives, engendered respect in their communities, and who wanted none of that this weekend. They were here to be simple, id-driven creatures; drink, eat, fight, fuck, curse, and sweat. Feel impulse- satisfy impulse. See a hot naked chick- make a noise and throw money at her. Have a beer in my hand, drink the beer in my hand. Want a beer in my hand? Make a freshman put a beer in my hand. Sense innocence in a freshman? Stamp it out. Connect eyes with a lusty co-ed? Let nature take its course.
The white male human at his most elemental. No legal names. No wives. No children. No bosses. No employees. No community standing outside of the team to consider. The whole social order consisted only alumnus, officers, players, and (Fucking) New Guys. The only past and future exists within the nexus of the Norsemen.
I barely have enough time to enjoy my first trip to a strip club, as the first New Guy to arrive, I am constantly in the process of filling up someone else’s beer. I’m not doing myself any favors, either. With my long, blond hair, my retro Western motif shirt and my amber-tinted aviators, the upperclassmen and alums can only process their feelings about my distinctive look through casual violence.
The rawness of my face and my nipples was beginning to match the longing I had for my New Guy comrades, if only to share the burden when I felt energy course through the Norsemen crowd. As I was filling beers and trying to not make eye contact, the rest of the group had arrived. The Norsemen group tripled in size, and with the new arrivals came my comrades- and what was left of their hair.
I now know what took everyone else so long; they had been drinking at the rugby house, waiting for alums, and shaving the heads of the other New Guys. Maybe shaving isn’t the right word- the upperclassmen and alums were expressing themselves artistically on the canvas of freshman scalps. Each incoming New Guy had intricate designs shaved into their scalps. Most tried to capture the spirit of their rugby pseudonym. A couple were just unsettling. We all gathered around to inspect the work.
First was my closest friend, Kevin. As with most Norsemen, he had two aliases; one typically much more disparaging the other. They decided to capture the more disparaging of the two- Helmet Head. Although Kevin had the vapid charm of a gameshow host, he was not blessed with gameshow host looks. Part of his limitations were his very low hairline and very thick, crew cut hair (hence the nickname! Ruggers are so clever!). For him, they shaved his hair to mimic a rugby helmet. I’m not sure if they looked at an actual helmet for guidance, or simply drew from memory. Even at this early stage of my tenure, I had learned not to ask questions I’m not prepared to learn the answers to.
Next up and by far the most aesthetically displeasing was Pat. They referred to him as Combover Pat due to a rather pronounced cowlick that made the front of his hair part drastically to one side. In a work of movie-quality craftsmanship, someone had shaved his head to appear to be entirely bald on top- save for several notable whisps. Its authenticity clashed with his very youthful face, giving off a very haunting, can’t-look-away-because-there-must-be-a-glitch-in-the-matrix countenance.
Lastly was Greggypoo. His was the biggest non sequitur. Greggypoo was a very jolly, very round kid destined to play prop. On the exact spot where a man would wear a yarmulke, was shaved a yarmulke. Within the yarmulke was shaved a Star of David, so no one would get the wrong idea.
My brain had little bandwidth to spare between keeping 50 alums’ cups full and trying to savor the ‘shower show’ to which our party was being treated, on our side stage. Two taut, youthful Asian women were gyrating against each other in a shallow tub while a showerhead kept a constant stream of water falling on their smooth skin. Every member of the crowd stood in rapt bedevilment.
I felt a hand on my back, and I was pressed up against the stage. Scoomhead was belligerently addressing one of the performers “Hey! Do you like his glasses??” He held my neck still and pointed a finger at my face, as if to distinguish from all the other pairs of sunglasses inside the dimly lit strip club.
With a sultry nod of approval, one of the dancers slinked my way on all fours with feline deliberateness. She gently removed my sunglasses. I held her playful yet penetrating gaze as she changed hues before me. With a sly smile and a bite of her bottom lip, she reared up on her knees in order to put my sunglasses on. Quickly assessing that they probably don’t go with the rest of her outfit, she removed the glasses and slid them down her torso, between her small, perky breasts with their erect nipples, down her smooth, flat belly, and in between her legs. In one quick motion, she rolled onto her back and threw her legs in the air as she pantomimed pleasuring herself with my sunglasses. This drew a rise from the crowd. Scoomhead squeezed my neck, as if to make sure I had just witnessed what took place no more than a yard from my face.
Her placing my sunglasses back on my face had elicited the loudest response; a mix of cheers and grossed-out reactions. Honestly, I was just relieved to have them back. The seniors had made it clear that they were to stay on the whole night, and I knew what the consequences would be.
As I leaned back from the stage to catch my breath and gather my wits, another hand grabs my shoulder and forcefully spins me around. Now I’m looking right at Vinny- rather, down at Vinny, as he’s no more than 5’6. He was sometimes referred to as Small, Angry Vinny to differentiate him from Big Gay Vinny. The Vinny standing uncomfortably close to me was not the Vinny I wanted standing uncomfortably close to me right now. It could only mean bad things. He was the chief FNG tormentor of the seniors. Little did I know, but the seniors and key alums had been conferring during my special performance. They had a special ‘honor’ to bestow upon a freshman, and they had all agreed that it was my night to be honored.
“You are going up on stage.”
My mind couldn’t process. “On stage? For what? To dance?” Why me? I tried so hard to not be a knucklehead, to always be on time, to not draw the upperclassmen’s ire..
“Do you want to get slapped in the face?”
“Well, no I-“
Slap!
Small, Angry Vinny knocked my now well-travelled shades off my face. I had learned better than to try to parry their blows, but I still wouldn’t have been able to react in time. Not that he did it so fast, but that my brain was still trying to contextualize his command. “Wait here- they’ll call you up in a minute.” That command was simple enough. But I had no idea what to make of what was coming. My mind flashed through the few dance moves I knew. I began studying the movements of the center stage dancers for inspiration. Do I take my clothes off? Do I let guys put dollar bills in my boxers? Do I then keep them or give them to the girl dancers?
I suddenly felt very self-conscious- as if all the alums were looking at me. Well, they were. Several came up and padded me on the back, some congratulated me- for what? I hadn’t done anything yet. The girl on the center stage finished her routine, and left the stage. It felt like the stage had been empty for much longer than it actually was before one of the impossibly large black bouncers brought a chair on stage, placing its back to one of the poles, and stood sentry against the back mirrored wall about ten feet behind the chair. The stage was long; it protruded out into the club from the back wall and had three poles rising from the stage floor.
The DJ called up a guy from another party to the stage. Apparently this was his bachelor party. He wore dress pants, white dress shirt and now-disshevelled tie. Everyone cheered as one of the strippers walked up the stairs behind him and treated him to a special dance. OK. So that’s what I have coming my way- but what’s my special occasion? I’m not getting married, I’m not getting promoted- they’ll probably just make something up. Or maybe they know this is my first time in a strip club… I had mentioned it once or twice to a couple upperclassmen. That would be really embarrassing! They wouldn’t be that mean-spirited…
I couldn’t tell if everyone was looking at me with sympathy or envy. Either way, they had all stopped talking to me like I was in the midst of pitching a perfect game and they didn’t want to jinx me.
The bachelor’s dance ended and he and the dancer left the stage. A pregnant hush befell the packed strip club. “Are there any Scranton Norsemen in the house tonight?? Lemme hear ya!” The group responded thunderously. “Ladies and gentlemen… We have a very special guest coming on stage next… Please give it up for- SPARKLETITS!”
The whole place went crazy at a tenor usually reserved for March Madness buzzer beaters. Most of the club goers had no idea what Sparkletits was- but they wanted all of it, and right now. Trying to keep up with everything that was happening and making sense of exactly none of it, I tried to identify the coolest next thing I should do- forego the stairs and casually hop on the stage. Yeah. That’s some James Dean shit right there. Except the bouncers seemed to be Navajo Spirit Walkers and were always standing right next to the guy who was about to do something stupid. They each grabbed an arm the moment I made a move towards the stage. Instead of being the Fonz, I was lead to and up the stairs like an elderly death row inmate being led to the electric chair.
As I was taking my seat, the DJ intoned “Oh get a haircut you fucking hippie!” In response, I made the ‘hang ten’ sign, which only rankled him further, “GO BACK TO CALIFORNIA!”
Sitting there on stage, the nerves I had just been feeling washed away under the bright lights and hungry eyes looking up at me. This was a different experience from all the other times I had been on a stage, thoroughly terrified. The crowd of over one hundred individuals became a single entity, ebbing and flowing, with many arms and faces, all thirsty for whatever I had to offer. If I had any time to process the experience, I would’ve found it empowering. I was ready for whatever came next.
No I was not. The DJ was ready to deliver the clincher. He knew exactly what would happen and he savored the build-up. “And SPARKLETITS just lost his VIRGINITY THIS WEEK!”
Oh no.
My brain broke.
The whole club lost its mind. How did he know?? I realized at that very minute, that this was the most embarrassing moment of my life (a title that wouldn’t stand for long). Things were moving way too fast for me to keep up at this point. My genuine look of shock only stoked the frenzy.
Of course I was picked for this.
All of the other freshmen were thirsty for the attention of the upperclassmen. Several would go so far as to intentionally screw up just to get slapped around and berated. Who else would be a more entertaining candidate than the kid on the Dean’s List who didn’t drink or curse or sleep around? I had been building my case for this honor all semester.
I didn’t hear the music start, but what caught my attention were the looks on the faces of my rugby brothers who lined the stage. Sheer horror. Seems like a strange reaction-
Then one girl came out from behind me. Then two. Then two more. All of a sudden, I was sitting in the eye of a tits-and-ass cyclone. Every girl in the club was on stage with me. Hands were all over me. Girls would take turns jumping on my lap. Others would press my face between their breasts as they waited their turn. I was momentarily concerned about getting a boner on-stage, but I had reached sensory overload and realized it would’ve been impossible.
After a while, a naked blonde angel extended her hands to me and beckoned me to stand. As I did, two strippers ripped my shirt off from behind. Thank god it had snap buttons. At the sight of my snow white torso, the strippers began stroking and nuzzling my nipples- paying homage to my namesake.
I don’t recall getting down on my hands and knees, but before I knew what was happening, I was being ridden across the stage like a pony by two strippers, following the lead of another that was crab-walking in front of me, and being viciously spanked with belts by two more behind me. Where did they get those belts? My rugby mates must’ve donated them to the cause.
Midway across the stage, I felt a strange feeling. Not any sort of epiphany or sober realization- an actual strange feeling coming from behind me. The belt whipping had subsided and had been replaced by a tugging at the back of my boxers.
No!
So I mentioned that this was my first time at a strip club. To be honest, I hadn’t even had many conversations about strip clubs before tonight. The only one that comes to mind took place my freshman year of high school- four years ago. I was in Photography class, which was usually populated by the biggest burn-outs in our school. They all seemed to like me, I think because I was originally from a much poorer neighborhood and thus didn’t quite fit within the rigid schoolwide caste system. Mike McKrickard, the crown prince of the burn-outs was once again regaling me with another story of his conquests when the subject of strip clubs came up. He was only a year older than I, but already had more life experience than I thought I’d ever have. He turned to me, across the big, ancient table in the middle of the classroom, affixed me with his bloodshot eyes and told me; if you ever plan on going to a strip club, wear two pairs of boxers- just in case you, ya know, get too excited.
Got it. Check. I just filed it away as Law. I was so green that it even took me a while to fully understand what he meant, but it remained in the back of my mind nevertheless. It was, in fact, the only bit of advice I had ever received regarding strip clubs. So I heeded his advice on this day without the slightest bit of hesitation. How was I supposed to anticipate getting an atomic wedgie on stage by strippers?
Later I was told it was like watching a magician pull the perpetual hankerchief out of his sleeve. It just kept coming. The more boxer material came out, the more resolute the strippers became in finding out how much was in there. They wound up tearing both pairs to shreds, and pulling both waistbands over my head in the fashion of a traditional (double) atomic wedgie. The crowd lost its mind again. This must’ve been great theater.
It was apparent to everyone in attendance what had happened. This was, without question, the most embarrassing moment of my entire life- and I doubt anything with ever be as embarrassing. I had reached the threshold of embarrassment now. I couldn’t possibly be more embarrassed, so I had nothing left to lose. I had literally been laid bare before a packed house of rugby players with strange, offensive nicknames, white young professionals, and ridiculous black guys. I had fallen so far behind the moment, it lapped me and I was suddenly leading the charge now.
Once the girls ran out of boxer to wedgie, I threw my head back and lifted my hands to the heavens, drawing strength from the energy of the crowd and the gyrations of the dancers all around me…
Every girl I never had the nerve to talk to in high school, every sports team I was too chickenshit to try out for, every witty comment that stuck in my throat, every risk I never took, every opportunity I let pass me by for no goddamned reason, every insult I accepted without recourse- they were all burned in effigy on center stage at the Diamond Club that night. Consumed in the white-hot supernova that was Sparkletits. Whatever parts of my former self that was left after last week’s de-flowering was sacrificed at the polytheistic altar of naked dancing ladies and bemused black guys throwing dollar bills at me and body glitter and Chris Brown anthems.
I joined in the dancing- putting my hands behind my head and moving my hips to and fro. I spun around as I disco-danced my way to the farthest pole. Vaulting into the air, I caught the pole as I flew by- my hand outstretched to the crowd as I spiraled down. I attempted one more tighter spin and with one hand on the pole between my legs, tried to bring my body parallel to the ground as I slid down.
I felt the burly arms of one of the bouncers catch me on the descent. He carried me off the stage to the loudest ovation I’ll probably ever get. “I’m a stripper now!” I proclaimed as I buttoned up my shirt, leaving my boxers to hang, shredded, out of my pants. A badge of honor. Well, two badges of honor.
We departed soon after my performance. I mean, seriously- how could you possibly top that? I was on a high the whole ride home. The night was far from over, though.
Come back on Wednesday for Part IV: “My civilian friends were very uncomfortable with the current state of affairs.”
Miss Part I? Find it here-
Miss Par II? Find it here-
https://medium.com/@brianchristophermccullough/alumni-weekend-pt-ii-e14be477c938
As always, comments are welcome.
