“Ha, I’m finally going out tonight,” I tell my roommate as I bump into him in the kitchen. “Yeah?” He asks. “Where you going?”

“I have a bachelorette party to attend at Asia SF,” I tell him.

He laughs. “Asia SF… wear good shoes.”

“What? You mean like, good shoes for dancing?”

“No, I mean, the dance floor gets packed, and people step on you. Ugh. So, wear good shoes.”

The idea of having to get all dressed up to go dancing on a Saturday night is not my favorite thing, but because I have three (!) friends about to be brides soon, I get off my butt and into something nice. I’m finally one of those girls in tiny skirts shivering in the San Francisco fog — the girls I constantly shake my head at when I pass them on the sidewalks. Ah, karma!

The basement dance floor of Asia SF is just as my roommate described — oh, everyone has their bachelorette parties there. You bet. I must’ve stumbled into two different groups with girls in tiara veils thinking they were my friends. Soon-to-be-brides get free lap dances in the middle from fabulous drag queens. Free butt slaps (!!!) from bartenders, too. Cheering and yelling and shrieking and why are we screaming? It’s dark and loud and thankfully not as packed. Maybe my shoes will survive the night. (Not so sure if I can say the same about myself. ;) )

People start trickling in. We’re laughing at the private corner they’ve given us, complete with a stripper pole (anyone want to attempt a dance?) In true Christine fashion, I’ve camped out by the buffet table. Who knew Asia SF had amazing quesadillas?!

Without warning, a man barges into our little corner in full cop gear. “Laaaaadiiieessss!” he yells. They ordered a stripper! I think, amused and terrified, as my friend starts handing out dollar bills.

He is on it. Shrieks all around. I laugh, remembering this scene from Magic Mike. He grabs the three brides and proceeds to give each of them lap dances. I’m laughing, slightly uncomfortable (I’m not at all conservative, but it does get uncomfortable after a while) and wishing there were quesadillas left.

Stripper dude is now down to just boots and his Speedos (which, hilariously, has a horse mane on it — Black Beauty, I get it) and bumpin’ and grindin’ his way around the room. I’m in my corner. I turn to the closest girl beside me, and we share a laugh, thankful for the fact that we can hide by the curtains. After the nth awkward this-shot-was-supposed-to-look-like-a-blowjob move, he walks quickly over to the corner where I was sitting (cough, hiding) to grab more props.

Then, crunch. His big heavy boot finds my tiny right toe. I yelp. He stumbles. He snaps out of stripper mode as his face switches to worry. “Oh no, sorry!” he whispers quickly. I nod, he nods, and his game face is back on. Shrieks resume and he’s back in the middle.

I have to laugh. Finally, a moment of humanity!

And boy was my roommate right about wearing good shoes.