| Bubbles, Booty and Glory: Who Said No Sex In the Champagne Room? |
| Monday, 13 August 2007 | |
 Chris Rock, while a very funny dude who really changed my life with his whole "Robitussin" standup routine, is a liar. It's possible he didn't know this, but I am here to tell you that it is all together possible to have sex in the champagne room. Yes, friends, stop the presses, call your friends and send out press releases to local media outlets. I accomplished this feat last weekend during a 72 hour bender with my buddies in Atlantic City. I did, in fact, slam my chubbed, booze-fueled baby batter bomber into the sultry slam hole of an exotic dancer, without getting arrested, or having my clavicle broken by a linebacker-sized goon.Heed my warning, friends and fans alike. This maneuver is not for the faint of heart, or the sexually un-skilled. If, for example, you have not already achieved 8/10ths of the depraved, sadistic, lewd acts that are described on this illustrious website, then maybe this one is not for you. But if you're daring, read on, and I will show you how I defied an Emmy-award winning comic, and urban legend to achieve a glory greater than the Nobel Prize, the Fields Medal and the Keystone Cup beer pong championship combined. First, my buddies and I decided to hit a titty-bar that was not too classy, but not a raunchy, sloppy pit filled with illegal immigrants and Rahway State Penitentiary parolees. A happy medium was key. We actually chose a place with featured all-nude dancers. Now, this is not always a good idea, because some asinine law states that when there is raw snatch available for all to see, then alcohol is not served. If it was not for booze, there would be no titty-bars in the first place. What a senseless law. Anyway, we bought a case of St. Ives 40 oz malt liquor beverages. These $1.40 jugs of fire sauce get you randy, rowdy, and sloppy in record time. It's a great feeling. After a few of those and some browsing of the available trashy nude slam pigs, I decided to pick a victim. I should take the moment to add that in order to have sex in the champagne room, and debunk years of incorrect societal laws, you need to actually pay for the champagne room. It's sometimes pricey- but worth it. Anyway, your luck honey pot can't be a girl who ends up in the champagne room often. Do not take the best looking girl there. Also, don't take a girl who tells you it's her first night stripping. Not only is she dishonest, but she's probably desperate for cash. You need a marginally attractive woman who isn't super thrilled about being a trashy stripper. Someone who is looking for something better, or is about to take an job as a receptionist, fry cook or blowjob girl and has little to lose. Possibly an orphan or a minority, or someone who really, really needs a green card. That was the case for me. This particular strawberry blonde pseudo streetwalker hailed one of those countries that used to give steroids to their hockey team in the 1980s. I did a lot of drugs in college so the name of the country escapes me. I let her rub my cum-launching lance for a little while, just like you test drive a used Infiniti before you buy it. I took her in for a lap dance, with was a 5 minute preview of the horrid, soulless act I was about to attempt. "So what's your name baby?" she asked. Clearly using my own name, was out of the question.
"Randy Piston" I replied- thrilled at my creativity. The St. Ives had only clouded my judgment, not wits. I would need them all.
"Piston, I would like that as my last name" she said, sounding like she was reading straight out of a Russian to English dictionary.
"I'll marry you if you take me into the champagne room, Olga," I said.
"It's Helga"
"Whatever"
The champagne room is a magical place full of smoke, mirrors, 80's clam rock, and Moet White Star. It's a lot like trying to rub one out to scrambled porn, in that you're not really sure what you're looking at, but you know there are jugs and a slam hole involved. She climbed up on me, and I said "Olga baby, do you really want a green card?" I made sure to make sure my Red Army Rocket was directly lined up with her vag, which was very restricted considering I was wearing thin pants, my Johnson was willing to break free as if the Iron Curtain itself was holding it back. "Helga.."
I leaned in real close, so she could smell the aroma of malt liquor, champagne and sin on my breath. I bet it smelled like Chernobyl on a hot summer day. "If you let me take it out, we'll go to city hall right away. Just think, you can finally go to college...."
"Really?"
"I promise. Why would I lie to a beauty like you?”
As soon as I said that, she fished out Randy’s Piston, and hopped on, humping away as if Lenin's secret police were around the corner. I did not knew it possible that a woman could bounce on a man's sex staff with such vigor and fortitude. It was like, Olympic level cowgirl chair humping. I let loose an inseam army that the Boris Yeltsin would have been proud of. Totally under my spell, she looked at me like a sick puppy. "Randy, are you ready to leave? I want to live American dream...." At this point, I took off like an intercontinental ballistic missile. I put my pants back on and yelled to my buddy Cross-eyed Keith to score us a cab. I rode off into the night, went to the hotel, and promptly used the raid and rubbing alcohol combo on my communist slaying pistol. Next time I attempt history, I plan on bringing a rubber.                       |
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