8,000,000 or Rather 1 Tale From the Naked City

Back in the early 90s there was a place on Queens Boulevard named Naked City.  If I remember correctly, the dancers were naked and as such, no alcohol was served.  Now, I was not a big fan of all nude clubs for three reasons:

1)  No Alcohol

2)  The pussies usually look and smell like an open gym bag, some even have sneakers inside and zippers.


Anyway, I wasn’t a fan of the place.  But a friend of mine, who I shall refer to as Harry the Hat apparently was.  Harry and I had similar values.  From the time we left our houses, the next few hours were dedicated to achieving as high a level of intoxication as possible.  After a few hours, Harry could sail along bombed for the rest of the night, opening up vistas of nude bars and $20 hookers for him.  I tended to need to keep drinking until I puked, and then I would start drinking again.  I was more about bar fights, strip clubs and coyote mornings.

On one occassion, Harry, being a gregarious lad, engaged a stripper in conversation at Naked City.  He was a soft spoken guy, skinny and as smooth as a thai ladyboy.  We were teammates at one point, lotta lockerooms.  After some shy conversation, she made the mistake of asking his name.

At that point, all 5’8″, 125 lbs of hairless wonder, ripped off his shirt and leapt on the stage, Hulk Hogan flexing and yelling, “I am Zeus!!” over and over.  Let’s just say he was forcefully ejected, setting club ejection records in height and distance.  Good times.

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