When Strippers Attack
I am infatuated with exotic dancers, those females that twirl on poles and strip to near (or sometimes) nothing whilst providing �entertainment� to bevies of horny men, and occasional sexed crazed women. I will forgo political correctness and just call them strippers because it is a much grittier and to the point description. And lets face it; I�m not exactly the most PC guy on the planet.
As a general rule of thumb, 99% of heterosexual men like seeing naked chicks, especially naked chicks that are not their wife/fianc�/girlfriend/old lady or (insert descriptive term for a female version here). Of these, a large number are willing to shell out hard earn (or sometimes not) cash for opportunity to do so. Therefore, the free enterprise system found an immediate and time honored demand for a business that caters to the whim of those that like a little T&A shoved in their face.
Because of this demand, a market niche has developed for mostly good looking young women, that can dance & prance in 4 inch heels, swing on poles and gyrate and move their bodies in extremely suggestive ways without actually having to perform such suggestive activities. Depending on workload, social habits and the quality and or attraction factor of said female involved, this can be quite a lucrative job for those willing and able enough to do it. For me, it�s the women that make the whole thing worthwhile, but not for the obvious and already lauded on reasons.
I love to hate people and do my best to find and sometimes collect the most unique the human race has to offer up. Strippers are the more unique occupations that good-looking women have, that provide the greatest cross sections of oddities; hands down. I have managed to interact outside the walls of strip clubs with strippers in actual social situation and have come to the already obvious conclusion that they are generally pretty fucked up.
A few stories, shall we?
While working graveyards at the IHOP I had a cluster of girls that used to come in on a regular basis. As an introverted nineteen year old I was wonderfully pleased for this situation and this is the crowning moment that made me want more. In addition to making TONS of cash by treating them like princesses and not whores (as the rest of the wait staff lovingly called them) on slow nights I would converse with them for hours at a time; I was sort of a high school counselor that brought them pancakes and a side of gravy. It was lots of fun and another one of those �real life experiences� that you can�t learn in college. The culmination of my initial stripper education happened when �my girls� came in on my night off and received shitty service from the head waitress. The head waitress at the time had seduced my pants off at some point and was very jaded that I wasn�t interested in pursuing a relationship with her white trash ass. And yes, dearest of diaries, she did not care for my girls.
My manager at the time was a great guy. He let me get away with a lot of things and kept the place running pretty tiptop. But he, like most other human beings, had his breaking point and no amount of begging and pleading on my part could get the 86�d tag removed from my girls when they left a bowl of human feces for the head waitress as her tip. Yes, you read that correctly, after the horrendous service and injustice the apparently suffered they dropped a big old stinky load of shit in a bowl and left it on the table. And while they did call several times to apologize, I never did see my girls again.
Now while I do have several other stories to share about interacting with strippers, regardless of the content, none could possibly top that one. I will however leave you with a parting shot. A number of years ago I befriended �Amy� who really likes my brain. She is a little on the dumb side, but sort of a ditzy blonde, entirely too spiritual type stupidity. With the exception of club visitations, I have interacted with her (face-to-face that is) socially exactly three times; twice for coffee and once in a Safeway. While we have learned a ton about each other through IM and email and even though she does make efforts to stay in touch via the worldwide web, her recent email (received today) came five months after our last IM or email correspondence and besides the normal unintelligible chit-chat, she requested my home address so she could send me a wedding invitation (her wedding, just to clarify).
I was a bit numb as to how on earth I made that much of an impact on her to warrant such an invite, but then I remembered that I am going to a stripper wedding.
I�ve been drooling all day and actually volunteered to be the entertainment for her bachelorette party and my logic goes like this; if you think regular folks go apeshit for such celebrations, imagine the possibilities when you put a gaggle of drunk strippers together�
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It appears that I am in need of a bib, dearest of diaries, because for some reason, I can�t seem to stop drooling�
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