Ready for the Strip Club
It’s not too much of a stretch to say that all of Doof Derf’s 20th year on this planet — plus perhaps a few other years prior as well — has been building up to this very evening . . .
For today happens to be the occasion of the 21st anniversary of the day of Doof’s birth, and tonight at exactly 8:00 pm local time, the doors to The Pink Pussycat will open to customers. Among those customers queuing along the dank and darkening alley throughout the next several hours will be this brightly beaming boy and a few of his panting and playfully perverse friends. And inside those doors await not only the overpriced liquid refreshment of watery well-liquor drinks of one’s choice (two drink minimum required), and the odd stray cut-glass dish of stale mini-pretzels or peanuts, but also the startlingly stimulating vision of multiple mirrored gyrating and naked — except for lurid exceedingly high-heeled shoes — full-frontally luscious lady physiques.
Doof has prepared well.
In his already-sweating palms he grips more than $50 in fresh George Washingtons (making their journey in the space of less than a day from the grilled teller window of The Boise Bank & Trust on Herndon to the various pink and black and silver snap-garters of young, aspiring and acquisitive female dancers). Upon his moderately buff no-longer-teenage torso, he has arrayed his best sleeveless knit of multi-hued pastel nubbing. Though not particularly intended to take a crease, his nearly new stripe check sweatpants have been starched and pressed to within an inch of their lives. The bottle of Brut that he had been saving in the dusty back left lower corner of his closet since his First Communion lo these many years ago was ceremoniously uncorked, with nearly a quarter of its contents plashed about his pecs and pits and neck and nape and nether region (what's that all about?).
Yep. You might say that Doof’s been champin’ at the bit.
Yet for all his adolescent avidity in anticipation of tonight’s adult entertainment, Doof has for years assiduously avoided all of the more readily available displays of bared female flesh. He has left the room blushing each and every time any of his teenage buddies brought out a dad’s hidden stash of spreadeagled-honey mags. For Doof there were no trips to the drive-in for such summer Saturday sizzlers as Caught Coeds, or Big Night at Sin Beach, or How I Learned to Like My Mother-In-Law in One Weekend. When it seemed that the entire male contingent of his senior class was captivated by the tiny display of ancient French postcards in the curtained back room of Cosmic Comix, Doof was noticeably absent.
Remarkably, since the advent of the internet and the sprouting of laptops in virtually every classroom and home, Doof has not once visited any website rated XXX or XX or even merely X. The charmingly innocent lad has refused to sully his first wondrous enjoyment of the flaunted live female form with any of the baser, more orgiastic, or crudely animalistic presentations abounding.
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