Where: Sunland, Eastern Washington

When: Sat Sept 18

There's something extra special about Eastern Washington. Maybe it's the high desert. Maybe it's the clean air and the fact that you're able to escape the hustle and bustle of the big city. Or maybe it's that you can get fucking wasted riding around in a boat all day and never have to worry about the cops.

We were in Sunland, a tiny town nestled on the Columbia River about 10 minutes from the Gorge. The days were filled with drinking and the nights, well, they were filled with drinking too.

We had been invited to "the Box"--a notorious Sunland hot spot that is more like a strip club in disguise than a house, and crashing this house party was a goddamn dream come true.

The Box had a fully stocked bar, a fridge full of Bud, a handful of hot chicks, a mangy-looking dog, and a STRIPPER POLE! That's right, a brass pole fastened to the middle of a stage surrounded by mirrors flooded with pink, blue, and green lights.

When we arrived, people were already forming the usual pattern of hitting the bar for drinks, scattering around the house, and taking key positions to maximize the mingling potential. Justin Timberlake was playing on the stereo and there were people coming and going from the garage. Why? Because everyone knows a party isn't a party without a trip to the garage to smoke, um, cigarettes.

Then, like a pack of hungry coyotes, we saw her. She had a drink in one hand, a smile from ear to ear, and a look on her face like she was about to show the world something "special."

"It's easy," she said, positioning herself on the corner of the stage. "See, you just put your hands here and flip." Whammo! Next thing you know, this girl has flipped over and is doing a handstand against the pole, ass crack pressed against the brass and legs spread wide open for everyone to see.

Whistles. Cheers. Applause.

"Oh, she doesn't care," says one observer. "You should have seen her last time. She's always like this at a party."

Apparently this was somebody's birthday celebration and what's a celebration without shots? "Come on," says the party's host. "Everybody's doing shots. Did you get yours?" I had and, well, I had already drank it. "Well, shit," he says. "Have another." So I do.

We are standing around with cowboy-boot-shaped shot glasses in the air when I realize my friends have all left. I'm alone with a bunch of people I just met and that damn Justin "I wanna rock your body" Timberlake song is playing--again. We toast. We drink. The room feels like it's going to spin, and as if on queue, the girls are doing some spinning of their own.

One by one they begin dancing, pumping, and grinding--first on the pole and then on each other. One of the girls lays on her back while another presses her crotch in the first girl's face. The boys, of course, begin yelling and start taking pictures. "Show me your coochie," shouts one of the guys. "Show me your dick first, and then I'll show it to you," a girl responds. He does. She doesn't.

Things are moving out of control. Everyone starts taking off their clothes and the party in the house next door has started blasting Eddie Money. I'm not sure which is better: the stripping or the Eddie Money.

Now some blond girl decides it's a good idea to show us her thong. She jumps around and unbuttons her shorts, drops them to her ankles, turns around, and flashes us. The guys wish she'd slowed down a little. But she's not quite finished. Another girl decides to join in on the action and next thing I hear is: "Ass to ass!" Suddenly I'm filled with visions of Jennifer Connelly in the final scene from Requiem for a Dream. That's when I realize they're out of beer and it's seriously time for me to leave so I can crash on that pullout bed in the doublewide that will be called home for one more night. That is, if I haven't been locked out.

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