A Stripper Stole My Cheesecake & I Ugly-Cried About It
It was a dark and chilly night in March 2003 when it all came crashing down. Well, not everything, but definitely my blood sugar.
I was mere months away from graduating high school but didn’t have much going for me. I had gotten rejected but my #1 choice university due to the 3-day suspension on my permanent record. Why?
(It was a right hook to the head, but the school insisted on protecting the rep of their star hockey player 💪)
I had also recently poured my soul into a 3-page note (a.k.a. the OG sliding into DMs) written for a girl I was crushing on for years.
On that very day, I saw her read it by her locker, then jump-shot it right into a nearby wastebasket.
Worst of all, I was hanxious from a limp lunch of a Hot Pocket, plain yogurt, and chocolate chip cookie. That meal might’ve been as flaccid as me on senior prom night.
(Thanks a lot, dusty cherry brandy in my parent’s abandoned liquor cabinet.)
But it was Friday night! The one night that Papa CB would bend his coupon-heavy rules.
But only for one fine-dining establishment.
(It was a reasonable way for a middle-aged man to cope with a grueling divorce, right?)
We jumped in his beat-up Saturn coupe and bumbled down the interstate in search of breasts. Me in the form of a big pile of buffalo wings, him in the form of…well, you know. Satiation salvation was mere miles within reach when my father swerved off onto an exit ramp. He pulled into a packed parking lot, but not for a Hooters. I looked up to see a dimly-lit billboard that said:
“XXX STAR WENDY WHOPPERS ONE NIGHT ONLY!”
“Gonna pop in, get an autograph and a picture with her, and we’ll be at Hooters in no time!” Papa CB promised.
I grumbled into the gravel wishing I could have a regular Whopper right now.
Since it was an 18+ strip club, I took a seat in the corner of the stage. My father waited in line with several other middle-aged men. They all looked the type to focus on getting a picture with a porn star over their starving sons. Why wasn’t I pumped when surrounded by strippers on a Friday night? Especially as a hot-blooded teenager in the before-Brazzers times?
Because I would’ve taken a less-than-prime cheeseburger over an in-her-prime Jenna Jameson.
The waitress handed me a menu, asking what I wanted. My hungry eyes lit up, shining as bright as the neon O’Douls sign. I ordered a burger and fries, only to face rejection in the one place in society that seems so safe from such a fate.
“Sorry, the kitchen’s closed.”
“But it’s only 7:30 pm?!”
“We have cheesecake.”
I sighed and resigned myself to a slice of $9 cheesecake. In comparison to the $7 plastic cups of flat Sprite they featured, it was a decent value. At least in a place where 99.9% of customers are focusing on the jigglies inside bikini tops onstage.
A few minutes later, the cheesecake arrived in all its gluten-filled glory. As soon as my fork met my dessert, I saw a hand from above swoop in as it catapulted into a mouth that was not mine.
I looked up to see the culprit, a dancer with thick glasses and a serious soccer mom bob. She exuded some serious “white wine and casual racism” energy.
Looking back now…was she Karen Patient Zero?
“Hey, that was mine, come on!”
“Get the kid another piece of cheesecake!” Cheesecake Karen cackled as she stomped her 7-inch heel into the remaining crumbs.
Decimated, I broke down into a real ugly-cry. We’re talking a Kim K crocodile tears meme kind of cry. Tears exploded from my eyes, torpedoing into my lukewarm Sprite.
I cried harder over losing that cheesecake than at any of my grandparent’s funerals.
(That might have been the most selfish, and fattest sentence I’ve ever typed).
Seconds later, I received a surprise lapdance!
Except it wasn’t a lovely woman on my groin.
It was a spilled tray of O’Doul’s beers 🍻
I sprinted out of the club and slinked into the passenger seat, soaked to the boner.
Minutes later, my father got in the car, his arms as full of pornography as my stomach was empty of cheesecake.
“Alright, Hooters here we come! Wait, what’s that smell, did you piss yourself?”
I replied with a stare icy enough to keep a case of Pfizer COVID-19 vaccines cold.
After ravaging through 53 wings, our Hooters girl asked if I wanted dessert.
“I recommend the cheesecake!” she said with cockeyed optimism, ignorant of the fresh psychological wounds.
“Too soon,” I say, shaking my head in remembrance of the night’s war of nutrition attrition.