You think we're stupid. And that's perfectly okay, because it gives a stripper free reign to assess you without suspicion. How financial, malleable, & susceptible to manipulation you might be. What mental level of repulsion we shall prepare for in order to actually engage with you. As we see the light go on in your head, while you take in tits and ass and thoughts of extra services, the reputed dim bulb in ours is blazing brighter than the Salem Witchcraft Trials. Automatically, we've begun to investigate the label on your shoes/wallet/clothing. Your intelligence, or lack thereof. And best of all, your mental state. Lonely? Quite possibly. Things not going well at home? I'll wait and see when you're drunk and chatty. Perverted? Almost certainly. Horny? Without a doubt. Still think we're stupid? Good, I fervently hope so. And don't get all righteous on me and splutter that our behavior is predatory or deceitful - we both know you're not here for the camping expo, don't we?
The side-splitting joke about strip clubs is; you actually think your taking advantage of a girl who is so intellectually retarded and esteem-challenged, that she has no other choice in life but to dance for you naked. Maybe you even like your fantasy with a side-order of degradation. Why not? We get all types of freaks in here...
The harsh reality is though, there is only one person being taken advantage of. Or maybe a couple of hundred, if it's a busy night. Recently, while sifting through a stripper blog, I encountered defensive justification of our profession by the dancer herself. But why bother, I thought? Of course I support my co-workers worldwide when they stubbornly defend their intelligence, morals and abundant lifestyle, but I've also come to realize, what man is going to believe you? Besides, most the strippers I know personally, (the honest and dedicated, at any rate) are calculating, unapologetic, and blasé to public conception. No point trying to sugar-coat a shiv. And to prove my point, in the comments section of this absolving article, I read the following by one charming male;
'I think I speak for all men when I say, shut up, bend over naked, and pick up that twenty with your teeth, hoe. You talk too much.'
If that had been said to my face, I would have gladly bent down - my hamstrings can always do with a stretch, along with some sneaky Pilates in the workplace. I would have willingly shut up too. The last fucking thing I want to do is converse with you. Yet it's you who won’t put a sock in it. Or stop deluding yourself. Or deviate from your generic opinion of strippers. Left up to me, I would have a huge sign on the wall that states; Please Do Not Talk To The Strippers Unless You Intend To Spend Money. Our Dancers Are Not Social Workers Or Off-Duty Phone Sex Employees. Thank You. And while we can easily put a stop to our own side of the chit-chat, you should probably know gents, we rarely stop thinking...
*I AM A MAN-HATER, AND I HATE YOU. Not true, you don't actually form a strong enough impression for me to have an actual opinion or emotion where you're concerned. All the better for me if you have something intelligent to say, it makes the time go faster before I manipulate you into putting your hand in your wallet. You may stand out a bit if you're conversationally challenged or socially inept, but only in a way where the dancers will warn one another that you're 'hard work'. The reality is, I love men, from the helpful little sweeties that shell out hundreds just to see a pair of tits, to the hot guy we're thinking about while smiling politely at you. I just love you for different reasons.
SHE'S TAKING HER PANTS OFF FOR ME! SHE MUST WANT IT BAD! Do yourself a favour, don't forget that I'm doing a job. This belief is perhaps the funniest of all. You silly-billies associate nakedness with arousal, whereas we just don't. Not even a little bit. Strippers are so used to being in the buff, that half the time, we've forgotten we are - that's how much of a turn on your presence inspires. Kind of like when you leave your sunglasses on your head and don't know they're there. Both our nakedness and your existence is much in the same tradition. I know it's a hard thought to take lads, but you're either insignificant, or we're holding our distaste over your appearance at bay. Unless you're a Ryan Gosling lookalike, with more cash than The Wolf of Wall Street. But that never happens. Because a cashed up hot guy would rarely grace a strip club. And that would be because they're not abhorrent, and need to pay money in order to see girls naked. Like you.
BUT, BUT, BUT... No buts. I don't care if you can see my vagina, I'm simply not attracted to you. I'm attracted to your money. Which is all I'm thinking about. And what I'll spend it on. If you really want to know what goes on in the mind of a stripper, I'll enlighten you with a general inner rambling; Oh, awesome!! He has plenty of fifties in his wallet! I'll make sure I finish the dance naked on the floor and ask him if he wants to extend. Because who can say no to a naked female on the floor at dick-level? He might be good for at least four more dances. There's my bills covered. I just have to find another three guys like him, and I can pay off my Maldives holiday! Plus there's all the tips I'll make on stage. Oh shit, don't forget you're on stage at midnight, nothing worse than those late fines! Double shit! I forgot to put the towels in the dryer. Mental note to dry them after work. Right after I stop for a kebab. Or should I go a healthy salad? Could go some chips right now, actually. Wonder if I can borrow Diamond's shoes...my new stilettos are hurting...
And there you have it, boys. The sexy litany of what's happening in our head during your lap-dance experience.
BITCH ONLY WANTED ME FOR MY MONEY. Well, fucking duh. You consistently label strippers as stupid, and yet you truly think we should prance around naked for you on a Saturday night, out of the goodness of our hearts? What most of you bright sparks don't realise, is that strippers pay to be at work. Yes, that's correct. We pay the club a fee in order to dance there. Not that that's any of your concern, I admit. But think of the logistics; let’s say you're a dentist. Would you mind too much if I ask you to whiten my chompers and replace that pesky loose cap, out of the kindness within? Or appeal to all you landscapers out there, for new pavers and foliage, without paying a cent because of your humanitarian outlook? So yes. We are in it for the money, it's our fucking job. And we will attempt to extract it from you however we see fit. (Not just because you're there to hand it over, let's face it, you made the decision as you slapped on aftershave before leaving the house). But because it pays for small luxuries - like rent, food and petrol. Anyone for a fleece?
ISSUE RIDDEN. Who isn't? But not, I'm afraid, to the extent of public perception. This one is pretty entertaining to us down-trodden flotsam. Why? Because you're the individuals who skulk into a strip club and utter things like; do you like pegs on your nipples, beating men around the ball-sack, and the fact that I've cut a hole in my pocket so I can touch myself in public while you dance? Yet we're the ones with issues? Most of the time, you customers are either stalking us in a creepy manner, vocalizing your sick fantasies, spitting sour grapes when you realize we only manufacture interest, or, my personal favourite, insulting a stripper for the benefit of showing off in front of your friends. Not exactly a testimonial for sanity, gentlemen. But let me tell you my problems. Once I remember them.
I worry that, as a stripper, I'm supposed to have a daddy-issue. Yet my father is a cool, if not slightly blithe character, who taught me an attitude of empowerment from the get-go. So not a single daddy issue there, sorry. I think I'm supposed to be professionally predisposed toward abusive relationships too, but no boyfriend who ever abused me lived to tell about it. Word. Just kidding, I never went out with anybody abusive, so I can't comment on that one either. I've worked as a marketing manager, waitress and office temp before stripping. Guess what pays best? As a result though, I don't worry too much about my future employment, just about which path I'll choose. All in all, my biggest issues range from wondering why I'm not a nicer person, (which is almost self-explanatory, if you think about it) and why I haven't yet learned to cook a perfect Moussaka. That might always remain a mystery. But what might disturb you most, is my ability to switch off, regardless of your behavior. And once I've left the club for the night, I've left the night behind too. Not only have I forgotten your face and existence, but I sure as shit won’t remember you upon a return visit. Why do you think I call you honey?
DON'T YOU HAVE ANY FEELINGS? Okay, you got me. Occasionally, we do experience true empathy for your circumstances/loneliness/tragedy, and will act accordingly; which means we'll listen with a genuine ear and go easy on your wallet. We are not complete monsters. In fact, while not wearing the alter-ego we develop to better buffer ourselves against your blatant misogyny, we're not monsters at all! In real life, strippers go to dinner parties, backyard barbecues, visit our parents on Sunday for a roast, do pop-corn and a movie, pay bills, talk on the phone, and yes, some have day jobs or really-truly study for university! Whether you believe it or not is of no great fucking concern - believe me. I'd rather you not know personal details. And if you think you do, there's more than a ninety-nine percent chance I've lied to you. However, you do make fondness difficult to extend. First and foremost, you're here to see us naked, no getting away from it. It's hard to form a friendship when we plainly see you're just waiting for the slip of a nipple. In most cases where a stripper has befriended a customer, it's due to you being a repeat performer. Night after night. How can we not extend kindness when you clearly have nowhere else to go? Generally, we'll likewise spare you when we sense you don't have a whole lot of cash to splash anyways. Every now and then, when you feel that little tinge of authenticity from us, it could possibly be true. Especially if you're funny. And have a fat wallet. Every stripper craves those nights spent at work with one smitten & entertaining fellow, with no limitations on his American Express. We might even remember you when you come back.
So there you have it. The stripper blog I read than earned over four hundred comments. Some from women, most by men, stating that we're all lazy, dirty imbeciles, and not much better than a hooker. Mostly, this seems the general male conscientious. But as you smirk with mirth and imagined superiority, I thought you should be better informed; you've not only placed yourself in the hands of a disassociate, naked con-artist, but you've willingly paid to do so. And there isn't really anyone to blame for our breed but yourselves. If it weren't for your own uncontrollable urges, or obsession with nudity, strip-clubs wouldn't exist in the first place, would they? Ya’ll come back now...