Cart Barn Confessionals: Working a Strip Club Golf Scramble
Cart Barn Confessionals are reader-submitted memoirs from their years as employees at a private country club or golf course. If you have a story you'd like to share, email Adam at email@example.com.
Dave from OneBeardedGolfer.com:
I worked on the cart staff of one of our local daily fee courses for the 2001 golf season, age 22 at the time. We had two golf pros that split the managerial responsibilities of the club. Michael was about as straight-laced as one gets: he was the swim coach (part time) at a local Methodist college and went on to become a CPA.
Scotty, on the other hand, followed the same daily routine all summer: wake up, work at the course from open until mid-afternoon, go home for a nap, go to a Lexington Legends (single-A baseball) game if they were in town, then head to a local “Gentlemen’s Club,” rinse, repeat. To call him a regular at the Club would be an understatement.
At some point Scotty and the Club’s proprietor cooked up the idea that our golf course should host the Club’s golf scramble. It was all hush-hush around the pro shop; all we knew is that the course was closed for a private “golf” event. We weren’t exactly the perfect location for this type of thing because at least four golf holes were easily visible from an adjacent highway, though the rest of the course was secluded. Also, at the time, the course didn’t have a beer or liquor license.
On the day in question, about 11:00 a.m. on a scorching hot day, up roll four all-black charter buses with all the players and all the girls. The girls were all clothed at this point, as there were a few members lingering around the clubhouse. I don’t know where they found all these girls, but they were almost all A-Teamers, even under the bright, truth-extracting sunlight. Tall, short, blonde, brunette, natural and enhanced. All there to have a good time and make a fortune.
I remember we had to rent carts from another course because there were so many teams and so many girls to accommodate, so as cart boys, we had to make sure everyone got a working cart, got all their goodies loaded up, and headed in the general direction of their starting holes.
The “format” was an 18 hole scramble; four guys and at least one girl on every team, sometimes two, plus several extra girls for special events, i.e., at the long drive competition, longest putt green, etc. Our jobs as cart boys were basically over once everyone headed out on the course, but we kind of ended up saving the day.
Apparently a local beer distributor was a co-sponsor, because there were just coolers upon coolers upon coolers of beer and ice brought off the buses, with maybe one or two coolers of Gatorade and water for good measure. And ice; literally tons of ice.
Once the teams were out on the course, away from the clubhouse, all hell literally breaks loose. Every woman is topless and at least down to a thong or bikini bottom within 5 minutes, many abandoning clothing all together if their team members paid the right price.
Girls are framing putts in ways and with things I didn’t know were kinetically or anatomically possible. There’s a lot of bending over slowly to pick up tees, ruining of golf club grips, holding close while riding on laps, and a full nudity requirement for the girls on their long drive swings. And that’s only what went on when one of the staff was around. It was pretty incredible; I don’t know if they even had that kind of stuff on the Internet back then.
And this “tournament” wasn’t like a lap dance in the corner where hands have to remain to one’s self. It started out touchy-feely and seemed to go downhill from there. The only rule of the day for the teams, not to do “anything” within sight of the highway, lasted about an hour. After that, the free beer and plentiful blunts kind of helped everyone forget the rules.
Scotty is enjoying every second of it, smiling, making the rounds, and glad-handing everyone like the Mayor of Gomorrah. Michael, bless his heart, has basically locked himself in the 2nd story office and worked on spreadsheets all day, so as to not soil himself with what he might have seen outside.
Soon after getting everyone out on the course, one other cart boy and I load up the Carryall cart with as much ice and beer as we can fit on it, and start making our rounds to make sure no one runs dry.
At first the girls, and some of the guys, give us these snarky looks as we approach, like “What the hell are YOU doing here? This isn’t a free show, you little pervs!” But, as soon as we told them that we came bearing ice and beer, everyone gets a lot friendlier.
The first trip around or two, we might get a tip of a couple bucks and a quick flash from the team’s gals as a sign of appreciation. As the day wore on, we “Ice Guys” were getting naked hugs and kisses on the cheek for being Johnny-on-the-spot.
We quickly became the most popular guys on the course, because cold beer and especially ice were at a premium as the temperature shot up to the mid-90s. Three or four hours in, most teams had played 9 or 10 holes, and the pace was getting slower as the hours drug on. No one cared, there weren’t any real prizes to speak of.
Except that the organizers probably counted on a five hour round, and provided an amount of beer and ice based on that assumption. I drove a pickup truck at the time, so I got volunteered by Scotty, who handed me a couple hundred bucks, to go buy four cases of beer and as much ice as I could with the change. Pronto. This was the first of three beer/ice runs.
As the day went on, all the girls and most of the guys got completely out of control. There were one or two groups that were playing the day kind of straight, or at least not as out of control, but mainly everyone was shit-faced by 4:00. Body shots, girls making out with each other, the works.
One absolutely gorgeous girl, who’d been wearing nothing but a thong most of the day, decided to ditch said thong and skinny-dip a few laps around the pond between the first green and the ninth tee. Yeah, a golf course pond. And never mind that this was one of the spots in full view of the highway, I guess the temperature and the price were right. It literally was a golf course taken over by and turned into a strip club.
The girls continued to get friendlier throughout the day, of course, and as the gatekeepers of beer, ice, and eventually those Gatorades and bottles of water, we could barely get four or five groups restocked without having to run back to the clubhouse to refresh our supplies. Eventually, sometime around 5:00 or so, we sort of became a taxi service: cold drinks and ice on the way out, girls needing to use the clubhouse restrooms going in.
This meant lots of talking, flirting, and teasing with the girls during the rides, and lots of appreciation for the effort in the form of gratuitous naked hugs and kisses. I don’t know if the two of us that ran those loops sort of became mascots for these gals, or they just really appreciated us playing it straight and doing something for them besides just staring at their naked bodies. I don’t think I was called so many variations of “cute” as a baby as I was that afternoon.
Before we know it, 7:00 p.m. is approaching, which was the appointed time for everyone to load back up on the buses and head back to the Club. I think one group go in 16 holes of golf, with everyone else sort of having given up on their scorecard by the end of the day. So our job is to herd the cats back towards the buses and hope the gals can find their clothes on the way.
Word eventually got out about what had gone on there that day, and I’m sure Scotty had a little hell to pay. The course suffered an ownership change mid-summer, and Scotty didn’t stay on. I know for sure that any future tournaments that particular Club hosted didn’t come back to our golf course.
That day was the probably the longest and the hardest I worked that entire summer, but it was an incredible amount of fun. I walked with around a hundred dollars in my pocket, and I actually was asked for my phone number, gave it of course, and met a couple of the girls out for drinks later that night. Not at the Club.