boyspoke…we’re not kidding around

Guys, next time you go to a strip club, I want you do yourself a favor. Whatever the special occasion may be — bachelor party; birthday in Vegas; Tuesday — any journey to an exotic dancing establishment can be a special and exciting adventure. However, there are certain pitfalls that must be avoided.

I know that going into a smoky bar to watch women take off their clothes sounds like a foolproof recipe for good clean fun, but it's not always the careless jaunt that you imagine it will be. You have to watch out, because danger lurks behind those tassels and if you're not careful, things can take a decided turn for the worse.

Thankfully, there are precautions you can take to insure a night of safe clothing-free entertainment. That's why the next time you venture out for a night at the gentleman's club, I want you to do one thing before you go. Take a piece of paper and write a message on it. The message is for you and you alone. Write it down clearly — make sure it will be legible when you are drunk, confused and in poor lighting — fold the piece of paper neatly and stick it in your wallet or your front shirt pocket, if you have one. Anywhere that it's easily accessible and can be deployed at a moment's notice. Understood? Ok, now this is the message that I want you to write on that piece of paper:

The stripper is not in love with you.

This is a statement that may seem obvious now, in the clear-headed light of sobriety. However, when you find yourself pinned down on a tattered velvet couch, with three Jaeger Bombs and four beers in your stomach, bass-heavy Chingy beats pounding on your skull, and two perfectly delicious, silicone-supported nipples lodged in your eye sockets, believe it or not, the situation becomes slightly more gauzy.

The stripper is not in love with you.

I know, I know. She called you sweetie. She may have even given you a personalized nickname, like when you told her your name was Jack and she started calling you Jackie. That shows she's paying attention, not that she's planning to have it monogrammed anywhere.

I know it seems like she singled you out for special attention when she looked right at you and crawled over on her hands and knees to accept your money, but really, you're not special. See the sixty other guys who were all sitting at the edge of the stage? They had dollar bills in their hands too and they all got their turn. Yes, big spender, I know you had a five, but some of them had twenties. Your hands weren't the only ones inside that g-string.

I know she offered to take you into the VIP room. She wasn't doing you a unique favor. A lot of guys get to go in there. They all had to pay the same amount that you did. Trust me, you are not very important.

I know. She's a student and she's studying political science, which is almost what you went into before you changed your major to accounting. It does seem like you have a lot in common, but honestly, the girls in your accounting classes weren't even interested in dating an accountant, so her minor in international relations probably doesn't give you two a special bond.

I know. I know. I know. She's beautiful and she was very polite and sweet and amazingly sexy and for the five minutes and thirty-two seconds that she crushed your pelvis with that absolutely perfect ass, she made you feel like the only guy in the world who mattered to her. You were. For five minutes and thirty-two seconds. Now, that creepy guy who looks like your ex-girlfriend's dad is the only guy in the world who matters to her. Back of the line, pal.

She doesn't want to be rescued from an abusive boyfriend/father/modern dance teacher. She hasn't been waiting for just the right guy to come in off the street and take her away to be a housewife in the suburbs. You haven't shown her a glimpse of what her life could be like outside of the club and when you come back next month, she won't remember you. This is Kitty Kat's Hideaway, not an After School Special.

So the next time a girl takes a dollar bill out of your mouth with her breasts and you find yourself saying, "Wow! I think she really likes me!", pull that note out of your pocket, read it slowly to yourself, and then take your drunk head out of your drunk ass.

She's a professional. She's great at what she does. Pay her handsomely and move on. Because …

The stripper is not in love with you.

This entry was posted on Monday, November 28th, 2005 at 3:02 am and is filed under boobs + rants + blue balls. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site. -->