Hookers Are Dumb And Families Cost Extra

Cousin David was addicted to the idea that we go to a strip club, which was fine with us because hey, Vegas. Long as he didn’t mind going with his four straight female cousins.

As far as strip clubs are concerned, I was dead set on going to Crazy Horse, but David refused, because he's fucking smarter than I am. He was all about Cheetahs because of Jessie Spano and Showgirls.

So after a night of craps at the Golden Nugget and a quick ride down LV Blvd on The Deuce, we started walking in the direction of that huge neon sign for Cheetahs that you drive past on the highway.

Katsisch GPSed that shit on her phone, and brilliantly steered our feet down a disheveled and cracked industry road. The kind road where the sidewalks are fragmented into gravel, with abandoned buildings and high-fenced junk yards full of loud, barking lions and tigers and bears. We completely wussed out with the walking, because, I mean, it was scary. And I had to piss really fucking bad. So we hopped in a cab that drove us through fuck-all before we actually got to Cheetahs.

The cover charge was thirty bucks, and we were all like, this is some bullshit, but fuck it, we just killed the dice over at Golden Nugget and definitely deserve some stripper action.

Yellavitch and Katsisch were against paying that much, and decided that they were going to take off, and while Leeska and David paid their covers, the bouncers stopped the sisters and told them they could just get in for free, because they wanted our business. So fucking jealous. Playing the Pass Line works at strip clubs.

Not gonna lie, I was kind of afeared, and then kind of bored.

We're sitting right in front of the stage in some comfy chairs, and watch some fluorescent strippers glow and shimmy for awhile before the offers started pouring in.

Strippers love the Yellavitch.

She's got more game than anyone else in that bar, just by sheer presence. She sits there, not even drinking, horrified and out of her mind, and strippers are rubbing themselves all over her. David. Was. Pissed.

One thing you should know about Yellavitch: she looks like a soft and feminine fifteen year old boy, with her cargo pants and Queen t-shirts, pixie hair and pretty face. Strippers are straddling her and shoving her face in their tits like it’s their job, and she'd shiver out, "I have no money" and they were all, "Don't worry about it."

Apparently, you don't need no credit card to ride this train.

They'd run their fingers through her hair and wrap their legs around her, Yell's all wide eyed and terrified, and they start running their stripper hands up the Yellavitch's shirt and squeal in shock, "Oh my god, this is a girl!" Which was our cue to crack the fuck up.

Watching their faces react to my sister's tits was way more entertaining than watching them strip.

(I really, really, really want to change that last sentence. My sister's tits? That phrase just feels wrong to say. Pretty sure I have never, ever, ever in my life referenced my sister's tits before. Chest, yes, but tits?)

(Garumph.)

Anyway, these lap dances go on for about an hour and five strippers. David kept on getting snubbed, which irritated the balls off of him, I think, because the four of us were getting way more attention than he was, and Yellavitch in particular.

One of the last strippers to straddle my sister was definitely a hooker. Granted, everyone's a hooker for a price. But I do not want hookers sitting on my sister's lap.

She's all playing with Yell's hair and talking in this awful high voice, with her hooker tits hanging out all over the place. Yell was uncomfortable, and this hooker was asking us about ourselves.

"So, how do you all know each other?"

"We're sisters, actually."

Confused and disturbed hookers are funny. "Huh?"

"We're sisters."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"What are you guys doing here?"

I point at David. "It was his turn to pick."

"What?"

"It was his turn to pick. What we did."

"What?"

Are all hookers this fucking stupid?

"He wanted to come here, so we're here, getting drunk and watching strippers."

"Aren't they married?" She points to Leeska and David.

"No," I start laughing. "Why would you think that?"

"They look like they're close."

"They're brother and sister."

"Eeeewwww." I'm getting an "eeeewwww" from some dumb whore who swallows cum for a living. "Are you guys all, like, related?"

Laughing. "Yeah, we're cousins."

"Oh, honey - family's extra. I don't do families. None of us will."

Still laughing. "Neither do we."

"What? I don't-"

"Dude, we're just watching the show."

"What?"

"Can you not hear me, or do you just not understand?"

She is seriously offended. "Why are you laughing at me?"

"I don't understand why you're freaking out."

"Well, I...so, you guys are like, all related."

"Yes."

"And you came here."

"Yes."

"For fun."

"Yes."

"That's fucked."

"What, haven't brothers come in here before?"

She furrows. "That's different."

I'm still laughing at her. "Dude, seriously? We're just here to see some strippers, like everyone else in the room."

"With your sisters and cousins."

"It's not like we're here for the Champagne Room."

"You know 'bout the Champagne Room?"

"Dude, everyone knows about the Champagne Room. And my family and I--" I gesture to them "--are just here to drink some beers and watch some dancin ladies."

"Oh, because that would be weird."

I don't think hookers understand the practical application of sarcastic vocal intonations.

The hooker stands up and walks away, and Yellavitch, Katsisch and I stare after her. She goes straight up to another stripper, raises her eyebrows and makes some jazz hands, and goes, "Whoa."

I about shat myself from cackling after her.

We left eventually in basic hysterics, climbing into a cab, Yellavitch was all proud of herself and giggley. "They were all so smooth."

"This is crap. I want the smoothness. Why didn't I get the smoothness? I deserve the smoothness, dammit, and fuck you all! Fuck you, and fuck your family, and fuck those fucking strippers. Don't tread on me!" David = bonkers.

Still laughing at him. He sighs. "Goddammit. Let's go lose at blackjack." Poor David.

Then we headed back to the Flamingo.

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