The Legend of Lenny

First off, a disclaimer.  This is not my story.  Well, it will be once I’m done with it, but it didn’t originate with me.  It originates with a lad that I’ll call Lenny.  I’m not sure what his mama would call him, but due to the constraints of my knowledge of the man, I’ll call him Lenny.  Also, this is complete and utter here-say.  So much so that I may just embellish it as I see fit, mostly ’cause that’s how I roll.

So this is the story of Lenny who went in search of a lovely little skin show, pole dance, maybe even a lap dance, I don’t know.  But what Lenny got was very, very different.

BTW, this little story takes place in Astoria, Oregon.  Now, if you have travelled this country much, you know that the wee hamlets and burgs have only one thing in common with the big cities and that is the fact that folks can be pretty strange sometimes.  Astoria is no different.

For those of you from parts asunder, Astoria sits at the mouth of the Columbia river, so on one side of her are the hills and trees of the Pacific Northwest and on the other is one big pond known as the Pacific Ocean.  You mights say the locals are between something rather like a rock and another rather like a hard place.  It’s a cute little town but it doesn’t have much going on for it – aside from the local boys who are real charmers, the Coast Guard boys (well, and girls too I suppose) who are often the best meal ticket in town, and lots of folks who tell stories around glasses of Pabst Blue Ribbon or other cheap beers.

So, Lenny is in Astoria.  It happens that the tourist season is over (which is a short little window of dry weather the area serves up every summer) and so the exotic dancers that Lenny was lined up to pad their g-strings, well, these girls were the real deal, the local lovely ladies.  In the summer, the strip joints bring in gals from Portland to gyrate for the tourists, but once the rain comes, the Portland ladies all go back to rainy Portland where there are at least things to do besides watch themselves grind their hips to bad 80s music.

Not truly being a wild man, Lenny is a bit hesitant to accompany his friends to the strip joint, but he agrees.  It wasn’t the night that the “hot Russian chick” was dancing, or even “that really skinny chick.”  Nope.  The creme-de-la-creme was a local lass, we’ll just call “Sally” for now.  Sally is probably a frazzled mom just trying to supplement her kids’ diet of Kraft Mac & Cheese with some Ballpark Franks.  Perhaps she would be better suited to selling Avon.  You see, when you’ve got the baggy belly skin of a mom, a few pounds over the “curvy” category and several missing teeth, you might not be the typical exotic dancer.

Lenny, being a fairly broad-minded kind of guy, he was willing to overlook those minor details in light of Sally’s ability to keep a pretty good tempo  – a girl with rhythm and a cowboy hat?  Hot doggie.  However, when Sally turned around to shake her stuff and Lenny got a good look at the toilet paper streamer hanging from between her cheeks, he pretty much thought that Astoria was not the best place to lose a fist-full of dollar bills.  No matter how cheap the beer.

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