Being one of the guys has always had its perks. When you're hanging out with a bunch of guys, there's no petty competition, no snarky comments about my outfit, no niggling jealousies about anything; it's just easier. I can really let my hair down when I'm with the guys. I can watch sports, smoke cigars and let the F bombs fly—not only do they not mind, they welcome it. Unfortunately, I learned the hard way that there are no perks without some serious drawbacks.
As I entered the club with a few of my closest guy pals, I was thrilled that they wanted to take me out and show me a good time for my birthday. I was even more excited that they included me in their inner sanctum of male secretiveness and solidarity: the gentleman's club.
As is usually the case with me, when the idea was presented it seemed like a winner. I was game, sure, you bet, absolutely! After all, I'm a guys-guy kind of gal, right?
"Welcome to Cheetah's, can I help you?" asked the biggest but kindest-looking doorman I've ever laid eyes on.
Being the take-charge, guys-guy kind of gal that I am, I extended my paw and introduced myself. "Hi, I'm Sonja, it's my birthday, and my friends and I just wanted to have a few drinks in your fine establishment. That all right with you?"
He looked me up and down for a minute. A smile spread across his lips as he said, "I'm Big Dave." He shook my hand heartily. "Follow me."
And just like that, we were sitting in VIP, sipping on a complimentary round of refreshing libations sent over by Big Dave himself. They guys were more than just a little impressed.
A few minutes into our debate about who would win the NBA All-Star Game, a beautiful girl came over and sat on the arm of my chair. I looked up and smiled.
"Hi, my name is Brandy"—sure it is, sweetie—"and Big Dave sent me over to give you a birthday dance." She spun my chair around.
Oh. My. God.
Before I could protest, Brandy had pulled her top off and was shaking and shimmying all over my lap. Her breasts were so close to my face, I was afraid I might lose an eye. At that moment, I wasn't digging being a guy's guy kind of gal. Not so much.
After that humiliation, Johnny Vegas yelled out, "Shots!" And that's where it all fell apart. Turns out, there is a bit of competition between guys ... who could do the most shots in the shortest amount of time. I won.
My head was spinning. Don't guys eat when they drink? "I need to get out of here," I said.
"You're right, let's go," said Johnny Vegas.
That was easy. No catty chick nonsense to deal with. Guys rule!
"We're here!" announced Big Willy. Ah, home sweet home. But when I opened my eyes, my heart sank as I looked up at the big neon sign: Spearmint Rhino.
"Come on, Sonja, work your magic!" said Willy.
The challenge was set and, true to guys-guy form, I wasn't about to back down. Besides, I suddenly felt sure that someone had spiked my shots with testosterone.
One-two-six, we were again seated in VIP, sipping on cocktails that had been sent over by the manager in one of the sexiest places I've ever seen. The women were gorgeous, the music was off the hook, my friends were in their full glory and my stomach was doing a triple lindy.
I have only a vague recollection of what came next. I recall being introduced to Michael, the manager, who was an absolute angel to me. I remember us discussing that locals needed to know what a great place the Rhino was to hang out; I also remember saying something along the lines of how I'd personally love to hang out in his beautiful club if only I could be treated like Norm on Cheers.
"We can handle that, Norm," answered Michael with a wink and a birthday cocktail.
I also remember being on center stage, promising to sit on my hands as two lovely ladies danced the lambda for me. Needless to say, I did not fulfill my promise to sit on my hands, and I'm told I was more obnoxious than any man in the place, right up to the point that I puked my guts out. Happy birthday to me.
As I welcomed my 39th year, lying in my bed, tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, head pounding, application for the Rhino in my purse and promising to get Jesus back into my life, I thought about what I'd learned. I learned that being one of the guys ain't easy; it's full of pomp and air, I'll take the niggling jealousies of my female counterparts over the drunken antics of boys gone wild any day. I learned that not only do the guys not hold your hair when you hurl, but they cheer and try to guess the contents.
I also learned that strippers are good girls with good hearts and that being a stripper is hard work; they have to put up with a lot of crap to earn their med-school money. I tore up my application. And lastly I learned that guys like Michael and Big Dave deserve good things, too, so I made a silent vow to never, ever frequent their beautiful clubs again.
Sonja is a writer who covers the ins and outs of relationships. Or is it the ups and downs?