Von

She grabbed my hand and led me to the “champagne room.”

 

One could only imagine what glory awaited once we reached our final destination.

This particularly aggressive sista was thick and curvy. Her bikini top barely contained her medium-sized breasts, while her thong showcased her round, shapely ass.

Ol’ girl was born to administer a fierce lap dance.

 

Why should I resist? Even though it was my future brother-in-law’s bachelor party—why couldn’t I have a little fun too?

 

Speaking of my brother-in-law, I’d last seen him moments earlier—slumped in a bar stool, inebriated from the the prior drinking session.

 
Yeah, it was gon’ be a wild night.

 

Funny thing is: we weren’t even supposed to be there. My brother-in-law was marrying my sister the following weekend.

He vowed to her that he would, under NO circumstances, have any adult entertainment at his bachelor party.

Yet, here we were. At a strip club.
We’d originally planned to celebrate the end of his bachelorhood at a plush bowling alley.

 
However, my brother came into town and scrapped everything at the last minute.
He insisted on a titty bar—and none of us protested.
I guess, deep down, we all really wanted to go. He simply provided an opportunity.

 

Our destination? A seedy suburban strip club, once featured on the news for being raided by cops. Apparently the dancers were “a little too friendly” with the clientele and engaged in illegal acts.

We arrived at the establishment with our 6-man entourage, which included me, my comrade, my brother, my brother-in-law, and his best man and best friend.

Upon entering, I noticed several lingerie-clad women mingling with the patrons.

My brother, a strip club vet, was impressed: “This is my kinda place, bro.”

Later, my comrade was informed by a dancer that, for the low price of $300, he could take her home at night’s end.

 

Yeah, this wasn’t no ordinary gentleman’s club.

Soon the dancers mingled with our group. I noticed my brother-in-law, already destroyed from the pregame drinking festivities, slumped in his chair from drunkenness—it was time for his lap dance. I paid the dancer, who led him to “the champagne room.”

Soon I was being escorted to a separate room by the aforementioned dancer…

 

After some small talk, she got down to business: A lap dance would be $20.
However, “upgrades” were $40 or $60.

She wasn’t explicit in defining these upgrades, but she hinted that the $40 dance would include “oral satisfaction.” It wasn’t difficult to decode what the final upgrade entailed.

It’ll be A COLD DAY IN HELL before I pay for some sex; a simple lap dance would suffice.
She removed her top and thrusted her ass into my crotch, gyrating and bouncing to the music. She insisted that I upgrade the dance, but I declined.

Soon it was over. I returned to the group trying to conceal my huge boner.

Between the overpriced drinks, lap dances, and cover—my funds were drying up spectacularly.
My last singles were spent on a stage dancer with the prettiest, roundest ass known to man.

I was so distracted by ol’ girl that I barely noticed my drunken brother-in-law being pulled into the champagne room yet again. The dancer returned shortly thereafter; she wanted to give him a $40 dance. Obviously, I couldn’t allow that to happen. I paid for a lap dance.

However, in a shocking turn of events—my brother overheard us and insisted that he get the upgrade.

Dude was adamant that our brother-in-law get some head. And even pulled out his money to pay for it.

I had to calmly remind him: “Dude, he’s marrying OUR SISTER next weekend.”

He got the point.

 

Moments later, in the parking lot, everyone agreed that no one could know about the debauchery and sin that took place that night—the results would be catastrophic!

If anyone asked—we were at the bowling alley.

 

So, imagine my bewilderment when I got a voicemail from my distraught sister the next day—she knew EVERYTHING!

Apparently, my brother told a family member—who proceeded to tell her.
Upon hearing the news, she completely lost it!

The aftermath:
My brother-in-law was in the doghouse for a few days.
The best man was almost kicked out of his own home by his enraged wife.
And my brother was attacked by both my sisters for orchestrating the whole thing.

I’ll be damned.

After a few days of damage control, everything’s back to normal.

However, this entire fiasco could’ve been prevented had my brother obeyed the sacred man law: what happens at the gentleman’s club—STAYS there.

 

It’s hard to fathom that anyone could mistake Maxwell for anything other than a heterosexual male.

 

And yeah, I’m referring to that Maxwell.

The multiplatinum recording artist who’s released some of the most soulful music of our generation.
The heartthrob/sex symbol who once sang about making sweet, passionate love to a woman until law enforcement came to intervene.

 

But now, because of a little misunderstanding with an autographed poster—my lady friend now thinks Maxwell, the man she’s admired for years, is gay.

Worst of all—she thinks I’m the object of his affections.

So, what shocking turn of events could lead her to such an outlandish conclusion?

 

This disturbing tale began about a week ago.
Maxwell, after an 8-year hiatus, was in town to promote his new album BLACKsummers’night.

The event was billed as The Maxwell Experience—an affair that completely sold out in less than a day. Luckily ol’ girl was able to secure two tickets and invited me along.

We were given Maxwell posters upon entering the venue, which he’d sign at the event’s conclusion.

I gave her mine; I enjoy dude’s music and all—but what the hell am I gon’ do with signed Maxwell memorabilia?

Make no mistake: this was an event for the ladies. Yeah, a few gentlemen were in attendance—but most of ’em accompanied women (is there anything more demoralizing than witnessing yo’ woman act a damn fool at the sight of another man?).

 

Soon Maxwell took the stage to a raucous ovation. For the next hour he talked about his life and music.

However, it was a miracle that dude could complete a sentence, ’cause he was constantly being interrupted by rabid fans.

“We LOVE you, Maxwell!”

“WOOOOO! MaxWELLLLLLLLL!”

 

At one point, the host asked about his favorite meal. When Maxwell hinted that his favorite thing to eat wasn’t food…the women went absolutely apeshit! COMPLETE AND UTTER PANDEMONIUM!

At the height of the madness, a young lady threw her panties onto the stage.

It got me to thinking: I wonder how it feels to wield such power—to have a woman so worked up that she feels the need to throw her panties at you (hopefully not Target panties though).

Must be nice, Maxwell.

 

Soon the Q&A session ended. And Maxwell’s security team rushed him to the area where he’d be signing the aforementioned posters.

The autograph line was long, moving at a snail’s pace. Thirty minutes later we were finally close to reaching Maxwell. As I exited the line, Maxwell’s label people objected to her getting both posters signed. Apparently, I’d have to get mine signed for her.

No big deal.

 

Seconds later, I was face-to-face with Maxwell himself.

He shook my hand. I gave him my poster.

Earlier I noticed that he was wearing the hottest wingtips I’d ever seen. While I had the opportunity, I told him: “Your shoes are killer!”

 

He seemed genuinely moved by the compliment. I know I would be. Stylish men like to know that someone’s paying attention. He scribbled something on my poster and gave it back to me—which I promptly gave to her. And we were on our way.

After inspecting the poster, she asked why Maxwell signed mine with a heart.

 

What? I looked at it; she was right.

It had to be a misunderstanding.
Maybe he couldn’t think of anything else to write. Maybe he knew I was giving it to her.

 

I tried to explain—but she was having none of it: “He didn’t sign a heart on mine?!”

In this era of the rampant DL brotha phenomenon, she could only come to an unspeakable conclusion: Maxwell is gay.

And that the heart he signed on my poster was a sign of his interest—in me!

 

I tried to convince her that such a suggestion was crazy talk.
It’s Maxwell.
MAXWELL!

The guy can have ANY woman he wants. At any time.
I’ve encountered DL men before, and trust me, this wasn’t the same.

 

However, despite my protestations to the contrary, I couldn’t change her mind. And her girlfriends, who were told about what happened, now refer to me as “Maxwell’s honey.”

 

Who knew the Maxwell experience would turn out like this?

Ever listen to Lil’ Kim’s verse on Get Money (the mid-90s classic)?

No, I mean really paid attention?
Before she was America’s Dancing With The Stars sweetheart—she was hardcore! The “black Marilyn Monroe”—who spit lyrics that’d make the filthiest of sailors blush.

As proven on this song:

 

 

Pretty vulgar, right?

 

 

So, while people eagerly dance to this song at crowded nightclubs—common sense would dictate that it’d be completely inappropriate to play at full volume on a crowded train.

 

However, everybody ain’t got “home training,” as the old folks say.

How else to explain the young idiot who blasted Get Money through his iPod at FULL volume—on a train full of horrified passengers?

 

Suffice to say, one hasn’t really experienced awkwardness until baring witness to an elderly Caucasian lady’s reaction to hearing Lil’ Kim rap about ejaculating down another gentleman’s esophagus during oral sex.

The shame of it all…

 

Now, I’ve been riding the Green Line train from lovely Forest Park to downtown Chicago (and back) for years now. And I’ve seen some crazy stuff in my day (like the night some random crackhead called me a bitch).

But this recent epidemic of folks using iPods as boomboxes has gotta be the most ignorant shit EVER seen on Chicago public transportation.

I guess headphones ain’t good enough no more. Nah, man—now they just blast it at obscene levels in enclosed public places.

 

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Why not just ask dude to turn it down?

Definitely a valid question.

However, if ol’ boy’s ignorant enough to blast ignorant rap music on a crowded train—he probably won’t heed your suggestion.

 

Case in point: a few months earlier, another young dumbass got on the train and proceeded to blast his krunk music on my crowded train.

After a few minutes of hearing the most ignorant rap lyrics ever known to man, a white professional gentleman had finally had enough.

He decided to do what all of us had wanted to do.

 

In a pleasant, respectable tone, he asked: “Could you turn that down, please?”

A sensible request, right?

Clearly the dude blasting his krunk music was out of line by disturbing the rest of the passengers?
And the way he asked wasn’t disrespectful or harshly worded.
Surely the youngster would see the error of his ways and respect his elder’s wishes.

 

Sadly, though, this turned out not to be the case—as he didn’t take too kindly to the request.

“Fukk you mean turn my music down?”
“Hell naw!”
“I can’t believe this nigga asked me to turn my shit down!”
“Can you believe this nigga asked me to turn my shit down?!”

 

Needless to say, he didn’t lower the volume. And, uh, yeah—it was awkward for everyone involved.

 

I briefly caught eyes with an older African American lady. If I had to guess, I’d say that she was in her 50s or 60s. She’s from an era where our people fought for the most basic of human rights. Back in her day, courageous folks shed blood, sweat, and tears so youngsters like him wouldn’t be forced to move to the back of the bus on public transportation against his will.

And this is how this generation repays her? By getting on the train and acting a damn fool?

She had a look that all but said: I busted my ass back in the day for THIS?!

 

It forced me to embrace the unfortunate conclusion: these fools done lost their damn minds.