In my post about how unproductive I’ve been lately, I mentioned that I have some stories about bachelor parties. As I started working on that, I realized that more than bachelor parties, a lot of the ridiculous stories I have from bachelor parties (and other occasions) stem from events in and around strip clubs. Actually, that sounds like a horrible intro and if you know someone whose bachelor party I went to, I promise that we never went to a strip club together (interestingly, on more than one bachelor party the groom-to-be had already passed out before that point). Really, if I’m friends with your fiancée or husband, I just want you to know that every time we hang out we either go to church, walk dogs at the animal shelter, volunteer at a soup kitchen, or build homes with Habitats for Humanity (I’m just kidding about the church part).
All kidding aside, I will say that I have randomly ended up at strip clubs more times than I am comfortable with. Don’t get me wrong, I am a big fan of ladies and certainly enjoy some of the…ahem…finer parts of the female form. And while I have made it absolutely no secret that I have never had the best of luck with women, being in a strip club makes me feel even more pathetic. Much like how I absolutely know that my server at the restaurant is only flirting with me to get a tip, I am abundantly aware that all of the half (or less) clothed women at the club who are seemingly vying for my attention are really only vying for my wallet. I don’t think there is anything that could make me feel like more of a loser than paying a woman to be around me (and there are plenty of things that make me feel like a loser). And damnit, I need that money to pay my rent.
On the other hand, I also know that they’re just trying to pay their rent, too. And the fact that I’m at their place of business, not contributing to their ability to pay their bills would make me a loiterer at best and an asshole at worst. There is literally no way for me to reconcile this issue, I will either feel like a pathetic creep or a stodgy asshole. That’s why the only times I’ve ever been to a strip club are when the rest of the group I’m with suggests we do it and I’m too much of a people pleaser not to go (also, because if I don’t have terrible life experiences then I have nothing to write about). At this point I’ve conditioned myself to just say “no” to everything offered to me at a strip club (which, as you’ll read, has its own fun consequences), because I’d rather feel like an asshole and have rent money than to feel like a loser and have to move out of my apartment to go live under a bridge. And also that’s why I make a concerted effort to just get irresponsibly drunk when I’m there so my mind is too busy trying to make sense of gravity that it can’t take the time to have an existential crisis.
With all that being said, I started writing out a few of my awful experiences at strip clubs. By the time I had them all written, it was way too long (that’s what she said) so I’m splitting it up into a four part series. This serves the dual purpose of giving you less to read at any given time and giving me 4 updates instead of one (you have to at least respect the fact that I’m honest about artificially inflating my post count).
But now that I’ve got you interested, I’m going to end this intro and tell you to keep an eye out for Part 2 of my Shameful Strip Club Stories: Mind On My Money, Money In My Shoe.
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