Remember: The Stripper Does Not Like You

I always thought I was above such cliché behavior. I ridiculed the slobs who acted like this. Ridiculous. Embarrassing. I would never say or do anything like this... I’m ironic, witty and smart. I’m an artist. I’m self-aware. But come last Friday, I was not only saying these words, I was truly believing them.

“This stripper really likes me.”

Ouch.

The drunken argument with my friends followed close behind.

“No. I swear she really does. I mean it. We’ve got this amazing connection. I know it sounds crazy, but she really really likes me. She’s been looking at me all night.”

It had been 7 years since I had been in a strip club. Admittedly my strip club gland was a little rusty. I had forgotten the Golden Rule of strip clubs: The Strippers do not like you. They do not care about you. They only want your money.

Strip clubs are very bad places. It’s generally smart to stay clear of any combination of alcohol, thongs and ATM machines.

Jessica was my stripper du jour. She had this exotic-mysterious-Eastern-European- James-Bond-girl thing going on. My wallet had no chance. I tipped her, tipped her and tipped her some more. Stuffing dollar bills into silk panties is unfortunately the only way to let a stripper know you like her. Flowers, chocolates or tickets to Broadway musicals are cumbersome and often go unappreciated.

While receiving my money, Jessica would touch my arm and shoulder and run her hands through my hair. She gazed into my eyes as she unhooked her bra. She smiled in my direction as she playfully slid a finger into her pouty mouth. I was hypnotized.

Between her “performances” she would come down from the stage and sit next to me. I was shy but she made me feel comfortable. We talked about our hopes and dreams and plans. She had moved to the city from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Down on money and luck she turned to the stripping game. She was now making $2,000 a week. I asked her where I could sign up. We talked more about family and religion and success and love. I fell for her. She was a nice girl…a nice girl who just happened to rub her ass in stranger’s faces for cold cash. I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to let her job get in the way of our relationship. I was bigger than that. Strippers need boyfriends too. Right?

I decided to ask for her number. I never pictured myself dating a stripper. Honestly I didn’t really fit the mold - I was not a drug dealer, I didn’t own a pager and I didn’t drive a tricked-out Camaro. At the time I was actually wearing a Brooks Brothers oxford and a pair of sensible pants from Banana Republic.

Jessica was not able to give me her number in the club because of club rules. I was to meet her outside when the doors closed at 4am. She kissed me on the cheek before taking the stage for the last dance. She went back stage and I headed for the doors.

I huddled on the cold sidewalk questioning my pathetic existence with each passing minute, but I resolved to make it work. I had waited for about twenty minutes when I realized that there were about six other guys waiting in different locations around the door trying to keep warm with cigarettes. A bouncer came out to lower the security gate and I witnessed the following conversation:

Bouncer: “The girls have left through a private exit in the back Gentleman”
Drunk 25 year old: “What?”
“The ladies have exited the building.”
“But…”
”But what?”
“But that stripper really liked me”
“Yes. I’m sure she did.”