Page 80 of Passing Ships

“You can as soon as we go get the boys,” I say as we climb into the waiting Uber.

The Hoochie Hut looks exactly as one would expect.

The exterior is dark gray brick, and there’s a bear of a man guarding the door.

We stand in line, waiting for the men ahead of us to pay the cover charge.

There is a group of girls behind us. They can’t be a day over twenty-one, if that. They probably have fake IDs.

I can overhear bits of their conversation as we wait.

One of the girls is hoping to run into a guy she likes inside. They work together at a restaurant in town, and someone told her that he and his buddies were headed here after work.

She’s nervous. Her friends are trying to boost her confidence.

I turn to face them and address the one whose crush is inside. She’s an adorable doe-eyed blonde.

“Hi, girls. I couldn’t help but overhear, and I wanted to let you in on a little secret. The only reason men come to strip clubs and pay for raunchy lap dances from complete strangers is because they think they have no chance of getting laid tonight. If they thought for a second that they had a chance of having you hot bitches on their cocks, they’d be out of there so fast.”

The blonde’s lip curls, and she nods.

“Go get him,” I whisper to her.

“You should write an advice column for young women,” Eden says, as I turn back to her and Avie.

“Yeah, maybe leave the ‘having you hot bitches on their cocks’ part out though,” Avie says.

I shrug.

“She needed a confidence boost. And they are hot bitches.”

When we make it to the head of the line, we are informed that women don’t have to pay the cover charge, and they wave us on in.

I scan the room when we enter. The interior is all black walls and black lights. The only bright spot in the place is trained on the large runway-style stage, the edges of which are lined with seated customers, with a center pole to keep all the horny patrons’ attention right where they want it. There are tables scattered around the lower level, and the talent is walking around the room, offering tableside lap dances or more intimate private dances, where they lead the guy behind a curtain in the dirty, dirty far corner of the building. There are matching staircases on either side of the back of the club, which lead to the second floor. That area is roped off and only accessible to those paying for VIP bottle service.

I don’t see our group of men at first, but on my second pass, I see the top of Anson’s head above the railing on the VIP level.

I notice a sharply dressed older woman patrolling the floor, so I approach her and find out that she is tonight’s floor manager.

I explain that we are there for Avie’s bachelorette party and that we’d love to make it upstairs. She doesn’t give in at first, but after a bit of begging and a small bribe, she gets us past the velvet rope.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. I feel like I’m spying on Sebastian and I’m about to ruin his bachelor party,” Avie says as we walk up the stairs.

“Please, you’re about to make that man’s night. Because your sexy ass is going to give him the lap dance of his life,” I say.

“I am?”

“Yep. All three of us are,” I say.

“Eek! I used to take pole classes to build core strength, and—I’m not gonna lie—I’ve kind of always wanted to try it out in a real strip club,” Eden confesses.

I turn to her.

“Damn, you are just full of surprises.”

She beams.

When we make it to the top of the stairs, I find the boys. They are seated in front of two stages that are currently occupied by topless dancers who are gyrating around the poles.

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