Normas Don’t Give a Fuck

Baltimore Street. If you’re from the city, you hear that and the first thing you think of is the block and a half that is nothing but titty bars. There’s a small side street within that block that used to house 4 more bars. I haven’t been there in a while but I think it’s down to just one, plus a side entrance for Hustler’s Club. The one spot still standing is Norma Jeans. I frequented Normas a lot in my early 20s. It was the first place I wasted half a pay check at (oh Angel Beauty, I’ll never forget you and your baby hair). It was the first place I touched a fake titty at. I’m pretty sure it was the first place I threw up on carpet as an adult at. A lot of memories, you know. But one that stands out the most is the time where I almost got myself removed from the building. J Sparrow and I were at the bar and I’m getting a fairly decent lap dance. One of those where if you focus too much on the gyration, you might get a full blown boner. I mean, it happens, you know. I could give a rat’s ass about getting a chub in public but boners are kind of personal. Anyway, I go to pay for the drinks with my credit card, and the bartender ask for ID. I hand it over, totally forgetting that on said ID is my birth date and I wasn’t 21 yet.

The bartender looks at my ID, looks at me, sighs….SWIPE.

Normas don’t give a fuck.

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