Jellyfish

His name was Duke. A delicious, twenty-something tall drink of London with dirty blonde hair, emerald eyes and sun-kissed abs. I usually dug the Mario’s and Antonio’s of the world, but with Duke, I made an exception. He was the precursor to David Beckham, only without the tanorexic Spice wife, four kids and bank roll. I’m not even sure he played soccer – football – whatever. But that accent. The cocky attitude. As soon as he said my name, I was all in.

As if his royal dreamyness wasn’t enough, he was the hottest new waiter at the club. If he wasn’t already shagging my friend, he would’ve been perfect. Fucking hot guys. Always gay or married.

Duke and Maddie weren’t technically married, but they shacked up just days after they met. She chose “Madison” as her stage name, honoring her mid-western roots, and if possible, was even more stunning than her English prince. It’s fascinating to watch two beautiful freaks of nature meet for the first time. It’s like they know – they’re born with winning lottery genes – but only really appreciate it when locking eyes with fellow ticket holders. So annoying. Even more so, when they end up being really cool. I wanted my aesthetically gifted friends to be assholes, just so I could hate them.

But I adored Maddie and Duke. And as much as I lusted after his piping hot, witty, heavily accented bounce-a-quarter-able-ass, I never broke the Stripper Sisterhood code of: Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Fellow Pole Dancer’s Penis.

So we became tight friends. I looked up to Maddie, who was a couple of years older and

Christine Macdonald

More than a feeling

On the heels of Saturday’s post, let’s talk.

Something made me hang on to that tattered cocktail napkin for 22 years. Something inside my spirit believed in what Dan saw. Just like something stopped me dead in my tracks, on what was to be my last night on the stripper pole at the age of 28. Sure, I made the choice to leave, but something ignited that decision.

Stripper, housewife, student, executive – no matter what your story – we all have those moments, standing with our hands in the air at the fork in our ever-winding roads. Our toes planted firmly in the soil, as our eyes pierce down each path, searching for clues on which way to turn.

Sometimes the answer is clear, and we don’t miss a step. Other moments present themselves, and we haven’t a clue where to go. Then there are those lovely situations, in which the decisions couldn’t be more obvious, but we’re in such denial, we can barely breathe with our heads so far in the sand. But time waits for no one, and our journey must continue, so we eventually land on a path, and keep plugging along.

If you follow me on Twitter, you may have heard me joke about the devil and angel on my shoulder. They’re always

Christine Macdonald

So this ex-stripper, and a gay dude walk in to a bar…

 

As we circled the block in search of parking close to the restaurant, my eyes honed in on it – a fabulous sign that would dictate the course of our evening, unbeknownst to Todd. He was too busy paying attention to any open pockets of asphalt, to understand my laughing out loud moment after reading the words:

“1000s of Beautiful Girls & 3 Ugly Ones.”

Sold.

Putting my plan of action to kidnap Todd after dinner, taking him to see female strippers aside, we enjoyed a long-overdue date. It’s always a hoot to catch up with old friends – and when they’re like family – even better.

Todd is one of my people; of a small crew of family, where time spent with each other is too few and far between. We all

Christine Macdonald