Every week over at Deadspin, John Salley spins a yarn, weaving a picture of his old playing days. Last Fridays’ story took place in the butthole of the metro area…a butthole that, like real buttholes, some enjoy visiting and that’s great, but the fact remains, normally it’s a shit factory.
I went to this nasty strip club with the Torry Brothers one time in East St. Louis. I don’t even think white people are even allowed in this place. There was Guy and his brother Joe, the one from Poetic Justice. We’re in this club and Guy’s sitting there in his white sweatshirt, getting a lap dance. So this girl’s dancing and dancing on him — she’s got a big ol’ ass and she’s moving his head and stuff, grinding on his chest, up and down, back to his midsection, grinding and grinding on him.
It’s cool. We get out of there alive and we’re driving back and Guy starts sniffing really loud. Over and over again. He looks down and he has shit marks on his white sweatshirt. Motherfucker, I laughed until I could laugh no longer. I think I peed on myself. I swear, I had to get out of the truck and pee. The motherfucker had skid marks all over his white sweat shirt.
Gross? Yes. Surprising? No, not really.
From what we hear pretty much doing anything over there will net you chest skidmarks: Buying drugs, going to Walmart, just standing there…