Before I reveal the secret reason men love strip clubs, I’d
like to address all the “cool” and “open-minded” women out there who insist on
accompanying their boyfriends and husbands to jiggle joints: stay home. I
appreciate your enlightened attitude towards dude culture, and your bad girl
enthusiasm, like when you whoop it up with a stripper, publicly dabbling in
hetero-flexibility for your man. But really, you’re not declaring yourself a
pansexual pioneer, proving how laid-back and awesome you are to your man’s
salivating bro-dawgs. You’re keeping tabs on your boyfriend or husband
and you know it.
“In a strip club, the physics of seduction are flipped. The
real money for a stripper isn’t dancing for dollars; that’s a preview of the
main course. The real money comes when that stripper hits the bar and tries to
get them to buy lap dances. And in these instances, men have the power to turn
down hotties. It’s the only place where short, fat, balding guys can turn down
statuesque, exotic beauties.”
A special note to ladies with stripper poles at home for
exercise purposes. While I know it must be a very empowering way to express
your sexuality and burn off calories, understand it doesn’t do much for the men
in your lives, no matter how much we tell you we love it. Role-playing is fun,
almost mandatory, but one of the fundamental attractions of a strip club is the
taboo of new boobies.
There
are a lot of women who draw the line at their significant others frequenting
strip clubs. It’s the source of many arguments, especially when he stumbles
home late, drunk, his lap sprinkled with glitter, reeking of cheap perfume and
baby powder. And why shouldn’t women feel insecure about their man seeking out
and paying for the attention of other women? It’s basically cheating, right? No
bodily fluids are exchanged, but the intention is there, right? If
you only knew why we go, you wouldn’t flip out, or worry, or insist you tag
along to chaperon.
The reasons men are drawn to strip clubs the way piranhas are
drawn to toes dangling in the Amazon are twofold. First, it’s important
to understand that strip clubs exist to separate men from their money. Not some
of their money. ALL OF IT!!! Men who forget this are the best
possible customers for an establishment that’s in the business of selling
fantasy, alcohol, and nothing more. Got it?
Men go to strip clubs to see boobies, and in some cases, hoo-ha.
They go to hear the classics, like C&C Music
Factory and Luke. They go to spend their money on expensive, watered
down drinks and lap dances that are never really a dry hump, but just a giant,
never-ending tease. Mens faces during lap dances are portraits of pathetic,
impotent want, not dissimilar to a dog’s desperate pant and furrowed brow as it
waits for table scraps that never come. Mainly, the enduring appeal of strip
clubs is this: It’s a place where regular men can reject beautiful women.
You got that? In a strip club, the physics of seduction are
flipped. The real money for a stripper isn’t dancing for dollars; that’s a
preview of the main course. The real money comes when that stripper hits the
bar and tries to get them to buy lap dances. In these instances, men have the
power to turn down hotties. It’s the only place where short, fat, balding guys
can turn down statuesque, exotic beauties. That kind of sexual power is a
profound kick, one denied men at normal watering holes, and it’s a novelty
worth the money.
To the strippers, all men look the same. We look like Lincoln,
Hamilton, Jackson, Franklin. Once we’ve picked a stripper, it’s her job to get
the man to believe that he’s the only man in the universe. It’s all fun and
games, ideally. In the end, the man is a little poorer, but he enjoyed an
alternate reality where he was Brad Pitt. The stripper is a little richer, and
maybe enjoyed the ability to turn another man into a glob of Silly Putty. More
often than not, the man is a lot poorer, and the stripper is a lot richer. We
still support single moms one dollar at a time.
I’ve gone to strip clubs to be titillated,
enjoy the Big Lie, to drink and smoke and debauch. I love the fantasy of it,
and happily tip the ladies with the bouncing ta-tas. On some occasions, I’ve
taken the bait, and believed that Amethyst, Sparkles, or Candy Kane actually
liked me, wanted me, and so I handed over twenty after twenty. In the past,
when I frequented strip clubs, I have to admit those were unhappy times in my
life. I don’t seek them out as much anymore, but it’s always fun during
the odd bender, while celebrating an old friend in town or a brief career
victory or just “Tuesday,” to slip dollar bills into the thong of a stripper
and sip a whiskey neat.
@TheHeLLonHeeLs (The Diva)