House of Satan: Drunk Story #669

The other day I was invited to go to the strip club with a crew of fly ladies. Un-fuckin-fortunately I was unable to go because I had better things to do with my money and previous plans. But the surprise offer reminded me that I haven't been to a nudie bar in quite a while. One of the last few times was HERE and HERE, but if you can recall both of those stories, you'll know that neither night went according to plan.

To be completely honest, though, strip clubs really aren't my thing. I know it's all an illusion and these girls could give a damn about me. On top of that, I'm the type to sit there and wonder what leads a woman to take her clothes off for money and whose daughter "Pumpkin" is. That's why I tend to only really enjoy strip clubs when I’m slightly inebriated.

There was this one spot, though, that I used to always have a blast at. This little second floor hole in the wall called Bar Passions on 8th Ave and like 30-something St. Every time I mention Passions, it always amazes me how many dudes know about this spot, because it was nothing more than a black door next to a bodega during the day that transformed into a magical rabbit hole that led to Wonderland.

Back in the day, me and boys would hit up Passions for any and every special occasion. It's John's birthday? Let's hit Passions. You just lost your job? Let's hit Passions. It's payday? Let's hit Passions. Wait, Mike has never been to Passions? Let's hit Passions… I think you get the general idea.

Anyway, my funniest Bar Passions moment took place this one time I rolled through with my boys Marcus and Terrell this one boring Friday night where nothing else was going on. We were all single and making reasonable dough, so why not contribute to the put-a-girl-through-college fund?

Now Passions wasn't the biggest of places. It was probably about 900 square feet—give or take a pole or two. Well, actually there were only two poles on the modest stage that was about a foot higher than ground level. The VIP area was a small curtained off section lined with black leather couches and some asshole that collected the money before you could enter and blocked off the entrance to the section with his leg. Can we say, Ghett-o.

If you got there early the space was relatively clear but as the night would go on, the spot would get packed. In fact, if a girl asked you for a dance around what I called “the deviling hour” and you agreed, she's put it on you right where you were standing because there was nowhere else to post up.

Well, on this night the guys and I got to Passions around 11pm and posted up by the bar, tossing back Incredible Hulks in little plastic cups. A few girls came up asking if we wanted a dance and for the most part we declined. When you’re sober better judgment rules and you’re less likely to willingly part with your hard earned money for the first chick that roles up on you. But all bets were off once the Henny was in the system—ain’t no tellin’ where the night could go.

After about three Incredible Hulks I started to get a buzz and some fine specimen asked for a dance and I accepted. Retreating to the VIP area, I paid the asshole in front of the curtain (I really hated that guy, can you tell?) and got my private dance. As the night went on, my boys and I continued our constant rotation of drinks, lap dances and jokes.

The only downside to drinking a lot is that it makes you have to go to the bathroom a lot. So after about my sixth drink, my bladder felt like it was about to burst so I headed off to drain the main vein. While in the bathroom I figured this was a good time to check my wallet since I finally had access to a light source brighter than a strobe light. You can easily lose track of how much you're spending when you’re drunk and in a strip club, and apparently that’s exactly what happened. To my chagrin, I discovered that I only had a $20 left, so I must have dropped about a buck and change on drinks, tips and tits. It was no problem, though, because I only carry as much as I plan to spend. So even though I was having a blast I knew my night was about to be a wrap.

I don't know what happened in the time that I was in the bathroom, but when I came back the place just seemed way more packed than I remembered. The lights were flashing and bodies were gyrating everywhere. It felt like the Zion party scene in The Matrix: Reloaded. The Incredible Hulks were starting to kick in and it was just sensory overload. I needed to get out of there. Not in five minutes. Not in a little bit. I needed to go right now.

Wading through the sea of people, I finally spotted Marcus. "Yo, man, I'm ready to go," I said.

"Aiight, I'm ready to roll, too. My pockets are tapped."

"Yo, where the fuck is Terrell?"

"I dunno, I think he's still in VIP."

I looked over the dozens of bopping heads and peered into the curtained section about five feet away. I spotted Terrell with a dollar bill in his mouth as a stripper slow grinds on him. He looked to be enjoying himself, but I'm not. I'm ready to go. I must leave now.

That’s when I began to bug the fuck out. I stopped dead in the middle of the club and became overwhelmed by the madness abounding around me. I turned to Marcus and said, "This is the House of Satan."

"What?"

"This is the House of Satan," I repeat with more authority.

Marcus by this point is cracking up. "Man, you're tore up."

"No, this is the House of Satan. It's the House of Saaaattttaaannn," I yell out. "Where the fuck is Terrell? We have to get out here. This is the deviling hour and we’re in the House of Satan. Where the fuck is Terrell? We have to get out of here."

Although I was yelling at the top of my lungs, with Marcus' laughter and the warped speakers at full blast, I doubt anyone besides Marcus heard me. But I was drunk off my ass and dead serious. I needed to get out of this place ASAP. I just didn’t want to be there any longer drunk, horny and broke. Thankfully, Terrell popped up a minute later and we skedaddled with what little change we had in our pockets and another one of my hilarious drunk stories to tell.

I don't think we tried to hit up Passions up for a while after that. By time we did decide to pay the spot another visit some several weeks later, we discovered that the club was no more. Not sure when or why it happened, but when we asked the little Asian man behind the counter of the bodega that was a front from Passions upstairs if the “fun” still happened upstairs. He shook his head and just responded, “No more fun.”

Saddened and dejected we left with our tails between our legs and have yet to find another local strip club that could hold a glowing G-string to Passions. So any time I’m in the area of 8th Ave and 30-something St. a devilish grin fills my face as I reminisce on the good ol’ times… at the nudie bar.

R.I.P. Bar Passions. Gone but not forgotten.

Now any of my New York heads ever hit up Bar Passions? Got any crazy stories from your times there or at any other nudie bar? Ladies, would you be mad at your man for going to a strip club every once in a while? Would you ever go with you man to a strip club? If you’re opposed to strip clubs, is it because your jealous or don’t trust your man? Or are you just opposed to the idea of men and women objectifying themselves for money?

Speak your piece...