Party in the Storm//Pride Fest Weekend St. Louis

[Ashlee Jewel and B Vaugn. 6.25.2011]

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B was my plus one.  I was allowed to bring five, but no one wanted to show.  That is to say, they wouldn’t come out in the rain.  A serious storm was approaching, and I had to redeem my prize-a free VIP pass to Alive Magazine’s Pride Ultra White Party and $25 dollar drink tab.   B and I are straight, but that [nor the storm] were stopping us from attending.

I’m still laughing about that night-at how I ended upside down.  Two male dancers held me against a metal pole-each of them ripped (muscular), and naked despite their tighty-whites.  I yelled, “Take a picture!” to whoever was listening, while twisting my legs around the steel.  The men continued to flip me in various times and positions.  I felt liberated and anxious, once back on my feet.  Outside, the rain was pouring.

My hair hung, drenched, while running in the rain.  It was comfortable when it clung to me, damp on my forehead and limp against the skin.  The 6 Inch wedges I wore weren’t easy to walk in, but somehow I balanced in them running (they’re my “how do I manage to always wear these in the most terrible weather?” shoes).  God himself, kept me from falling.

Lighting touched down to the city.

At some point, power went out in the streets.  I was driving in the dark, though influenced by scotch, rum, and tequila.  Pouring rain made my windshield blur.  The wipers wept, Splash.  

While cars slushed through the streets, I could here B chuckling.  “Man, this crazy,” he’d say, commenting on the gale.  I stayed quiet to keep focus (on the road and other drivers).  Rain was immersing under concrete; sucked in by the drains.

Finally we made it to the East Side (STL’s neighboring city/hometown of Miles Davis).  There, bars stay open till Sun rise.  Our bar destination was a strip club.  Which one, I can’t remember.  There’re tons of them there, all with similar names.  All have strippers with stab wounds.  The men there feel fine with that.

Once we parked, I exchanged my wedges for a pair of blue Cole Haan deck shoes.  Then acquired a fuchsia cowboy hat, embellished with dark pastels (actual source, unknown).  I was so cozy in that strange attire-soaked and dreadfully tacky.  Another car pool joined us as we prepared to go in.

We were a group of four-three women, two lawyers, and one married man.  Mingling, unacquainted, and trailing into the nightlife.  I was the youngest of the bunch.  Yet no one seemed to notice.  Upon entering the space of the unknown name, I created my first Strip Club Etiquette rule: No staring at the porn films on the flat screens overhead, and if you do appear to be as jaded as possible.   It helps other guests feel more comfortable with you, even when you’re slapping strippers on the ass.