That New Stripper Smell

It's official: I hate strippers.

And everything associated with strippers. Once was a time when a young naive Johnny would happily bounce from strip club to strip club in search of the perfect pair of fake tits and a kind word, but NO MORE! I'm done with you! You, who suck the hard earned money from my wallet like some treasury note succubus. You, who drown my olfactory senses in cheap perfume and the sweat from grinding pelvis into Man-lap. For shame, for shame. Today is the day that this man stands up before the world and shouts to the heavens, fist in air,

"DAMN YOUSE FILTHY WHORES! DAMN YOUSE ALL TO HELL!!!!"

What would raise my proverbial hackles, you ask? What act of betrayel could bring forth such bold statements from a perverted degenerate such as myself? And why spew such venom on a website that includes editorials on how to date said strippers? Because I can. But even more so, because two nights ago, I got a lap dance.

Let me further explain: Not only did I get a lap dance, but she also took it upon herself to give me a free handjob in the champagne room. And I only spent a total of sixty bucks. I can hear the comments already.

"What are you, some kind of fooking fayge?"
"Dude, you got a handjob, what the fucks your problem?"
"J00 R teh Gh3y!!1!"

Nothing could be further from the truth. Those who know me personally would tell you that I am a heterosexual Tyranosaurus Sex. I've dated strippers, I've spent too much on strippers, and yes Virginia, Johnny has banged strippers. Shit, I've plunged so far into the seedy cumstained underbelly of the stripper world, I've dated a midget stripper. But here's my issue now with strippers. Ladies, you really need to just cut out the bullshit and act like what you get payed to be:

Cock teases.

You're nothing more than that. Sure, one could blame the men for being so gullible as to dish out innumerable dollars for nothing more than some ditzy blonde with a bad tit job to come put a knee in his crotch and moan into his neck. But can you REALLY, blame those men? We are what we are, after all. Even cheap whores get more respect from me now. At least they don't hide what they are and put on this cruel illusion of promising something that they never truly deliver on.

Case in point: I was on a business trip in Raleigh, North Carolina. A co-worker and I decide to go out, have a few drinks, and visit the local strip club. Everything seemed fine and according to plan. The ladies came and went, we both acted non-chalantly towards the ones we knew just wanted the money, and bided our time until spotting the few ladies we could hopefully convince to come back to our hotel rooms and shower them in filthy man-fluid. This one chick sat down next to me, Oooohed and Aaaaahed over my tattoos, and gave me the usual stripper shpiel of how she's going to school blah blah blah she just started dancing a week ago yaddayaddayadda and how much she thought I was a sexy beast. The usual tripe. So she asked me if I wanted a dance. I shot her down in typical fashion. Look guys, the key to banging strippers is simple: Don't buy, ask for, or get suckered into a lap dance. If you do, then you became just another open wallet for her to pilfer. No, they want someone to talk to, to understand their plight, to be the guy who will take them away from all other filthy perverts who want to fuck her but never will. I've played the game, and it works. It never fails. But something inside me snapped that night, and I could no longer take it. My first mistake was getting a lap dance from her. Maybe it was the 10th gin and tonic, maybe it was her perfume, I don't know. But I broke down after her fifth attempt to get me buy a lap dance, and followed her into the back room.

So we talked for a while, and I kept hinting about how she should take off early and follow me back to my hotel room for a night of stiff drinks and stiffer cock. And it seemed to be working. I shit you not. But right as I was about to give her directions to my hotel, she shushed me and started to dance. Don't get me wrong, it was good ... but fucking is better. Soon, I thought I really had this bitch under my spell when she kept looking around to make sure no bouncers were nearby and she unleashed my throbbing purple headed yogurt slinger free from it's denim prison and gave Johnny Jr. a few tugs. God, she was into it, and when I grabbed her tit with one hand as she sat reverse cowgirl, tugging away like a plumber with a plunger, she grabbed my other hand and shoved it down the front of her g-string. I should have just pulled her stupid underwear to the side, adjusted myself, and given her a quick how's yer father but goddamn it...I fell under her spell. I finally came, spewing a whole generation of microscopic Johnnys onto the floor and she just smiled, kissed me softly on the lips, and whispered into my ear...
"That'll be 60 bucks, cowboy. Come back and see me anytime."

I felt so used. Like the handjob was nothing more than a nightly routine for her. And even worse, now that I think about it, she's not even confident enough in her self to try and charge people the usual 150 bucks for a handjob. What the fuck, I say? Why would you go through such devious mind games with me, acting like you want to go back to my room and get fucked, when all you had to do was say, "Hey fellas! Sixty dollar handjobs here! Sixty dollar handjobs, come and get 'em!" I just don't know. But I do know one thing, strippers of the world, listen up:

I'm giving you filthy bitches up. For good.

I'm just going to stick to prostitutes for now on. At least THEY have the common decency to deliver on whatever they're selling.