After graduation, a fellow classmate announced that she was going to marry her high-school sweetheart. When a mutual friend of ours decided to throw a huge bachelorette party for her and invite half of the girls from our graduating class, well, I was all about it (1999 lingo).

When I walked into my friend’s beautiful country home that summer evening to see it riddled with “raunchy” decorations, I was a little taken aback. See, I was only 17-years-old (almost 18) and this was my first bachelorette party. I was also a prude, so I had no idea that a person could legally purchase straws and headbands in the shape of men’s unmentionables.

As I put on a feather boa that wasn’t made of feathers (and my innocence rapidly deteriorated), the guests started to arrive and beverages purchased with fake IDs began to fill the fridge. Then I heard words that I hope to never hear again.

“Susannah, will you go with Allison and Kristen to meet the stripper?”

I don’t think I was aware that a stripper was going to play a part in the evening until that very moment. I was under the impression that we’d drink too much fruity alcohol, eat chips and dip, wear genital-shaped necklaces and sleep on my friend’s living room floor.

And that was rebellious enough for me.

But, my friend, Mel, being the incredible hostess that she was (and still is), decided that she *must* bring a stripper into her beautiful country home while her parents were out of town. And her sister, Allison, and our friend, Kristen, and I *must* go meet the stripper at the McDonald’s by the interstate so he could follow us back to the bachelorette party in the beautiful country home full of underage girls.

“His name is Tommy Lee! He’ll be in a Mustang!” Mel called to us as we reversed down the long driveway.

So, we were on our merry way- giggling and laughing and somewhat nervous about meeting a strange stripper named Tommy Lee in a McDonald’s parking lot.

We sat at McDonald’s for a few minutes, and we didn’t see a Ford Mustang anywhere. Maybe Mel meant to say that he’d be in a Camaro. Or a Firebird. Or maybe even a Porche. But, nerp. There were no sports cars to be seen.

There was, however, a rusted Chevrolet Astro Van with fringe curtains parked a few spaces down from us.

Oh, and what do we have here? There’s David Lee Roth sliding open the back door of aforementioned Astro Van Halen. He’s stepping out in a cowboy hat, leather vest, chaps and cowboy boots. And he’s greased up oiler than a batch of McDonald’s fries. And he’s approaching my vehicle in the public parking lot of the very McDonald’s where I’d eaten a bacon, egg and cheese with my grandmother only a week earlier.

I don’t think Kristen, Alli or I said anything. I think we just sat there, in awe, that a slippery half-naked cowboy was stepping out of an Astro Van being driven by a woman that resembled Mimi from the Drew Carey Show.

(Allison found a *real* photo of Tommy Lee from that incredible night. I SO wish I could share it with the masses because it may be the most epic piece of photography ever captured with a Kodak FunSaver. However, I fear that posting it here without permission would be perfect reason for a broke ex-stripper to sue me. Instead, I’m including a photo of David Lee Roth because he and Tommy Lee are identical twinsies. I just hope an ex-lead singer doesn’t sue me for using his photo without permission.)

“That’s not a Mustang! It’s a van with fringe curtains! THAT VEHICLE HAS CURTAINS!”

It was a dumb question, but one of us had to roll down the window and ask.

“Are you Tommy Lee?”

By tipping his cowboy hat towards us, we took that as a “yes”.

Tommy Lee’s mother and sister had driven him. Yes, I said his mother and his sister. Had driven him. Fifty miles. In an Astro Van. With fringe curtains. To strip. At a recent high-school graduate’s bachelorette party.

I remember the ride from the McDonald’s back to Mel and Alli’s house, as the Astro Van followed closely behind. There was so much laughing that tears were shed, dashboards were banged by fists and bladders were clenched.

Until that night in the summer of 1999, I’d never asked a male stripper’s mother and sister if they’d like to come in and watch their loved one dance. Thankfully, they declined. And thankfully I’ve never had to utter that question again.

I remember running into the house, my heart pounding because the bride-to-be had no idea what was about to enter the living room. I was acting terribly giddy and childish about the whole thing, because, well, I was a child.

And there he came, sliding through the back door in his melted cocoa butter and cowboy ensemble with a Sony cassette tape boombox on his shoulder.

The house erupted with the shrieks and screams and laughter of silly high-school girls that were

a.) in shock
b.) appalled and
c.) terrified

at the sight before them.

Please note that

d.) turned on

is not an option.

I kept waiting for Chris Hansen to walk in.

So, Tommy Lee stood in front of the young engaged girl and sat his boombox on the floor. He pressed play. And then I dug my fingernails into Kristen’s arm as all sorts of weird and foreign things began to happen.

Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On” blared throughout the house.

Tommy Lee ripped off his outfit like some kind of rabid beast in heat. He twirled his leather vest around his head like a helicopter. His chaps flew across the room and nearly wiped out the picture frames on an end table.  And there, in that beautiful country home, an “old” man (who was younger then than I am now) gyrated his banana hammock for a large group of young girls that were notably embarrassed for themselves and for him.

But, he did, indeed, leave his hat on.

I don’t remember how many songs Tommy Lee Roth danced to that evening. I don’t remember giving him ANY of my hard-earned babysitting money. I do, however, remember his mother and his sister coming inside towards the end of the show to watch their boy do his thang. They looked like proud dance moms.

When Tommy Lee’s flybacks had turned to wet, lifeless strands, and his body oil had been washed away by his perspiration, the show was over. He grabbed his boombox in one hand and his clothes in the other. He told us goodnight and gave the bride his blessing (I’m not sure if she even got married).

As I watched Tommy Lee disappear into the back of his mother’s mini van, I realized that I’d learned too much about the real world that evening. Only weeks before, I was still in high-school- a mere child- naïve and ignorant of dirty, worldly things such as genital-shaped jewelry and bachelorette parties and male strippers.

I didn’t even know that minivans could possess window treatments.

But we all have to grow up sometime.

And there’s nothing like a fellow named Tommy Lee to expedite the process.

 

PS- If my mother is reading this, I truly apologize. You learn new and disturbing things about my youth often, don’t you? I assure you that I really was a good kid. Really. I was.

PPS- Check back next week for my third installment in the Summer of 99 Series. You can read the first story here.