Turning The Tables: Relationship Advice From A Strip Club DJ

Published February 2008 in Exotic

Since every month should be Black History Month and since I’m a fan of ripping through hearts with painful, erect objects, your regularly scheduled programming has been slightly modified this month in favor of Valentine’s Day. Enjoy.

Dear Statutory Ray, I am a single mother of four and in order to avoid homelessness, I took a night job as an exotic dancer. Although the extra income helps me buy groceries and gas, my current boyfriend (who I met at the club...he’s a regular) wants me to stop stripping and get a "real job." I have no schooling beyond high school, but he says he’ll support me if I decide to quit the industry. What do you suggest I do?

—Sincerely, Confused in Clackamas

Confused—has it occurred to you that, no less than an hour before your boyfriend met you, he was trolling around with the intention of seeing some tits and drinking beer? Romeos and Casanovas don’t frequent the Sugar Shack. If some Pabst-stained dipshit is yelling at you about how much he has to offer while Mótley Crúe blares out of a broken speaker, it’s probably best to ignore anything other than the dollar bill on the rack. If the dude is a real player, he’ll go to the ATM with his wife’s debit card, overdraw her account and tip twenties without asking anything in return. But, the chances of that happening are slim-to-none.

Take it from a professional pervert: whenever I actually have money, the last thing I intend on doing with it is helping anybody who is not currently volunteering for the Get Ray Drunk And Stoned Foundation. The bottom line is that anyone who is "all about tha Washingtons" isn’t going to help you make a dent on your college loans anytime soon. Finally, there is no such thing as a "real job." Administrative assistants don’t have the luxury of being protected by a bouncer when the creepy guy in the loud shirt decides to cop a feel—usually, he’s their boss.

Dearest Ray, I am a happily married man who loves his wife. However, I like frequenting the tittie bars and my wife is starting to get jealous. Also, she doesn’t like the fact that I have a large collection of pornography. Although I’ve never cheated on her, she gets jealous of strippers and porn stars, and I’m afraid that my taste in entertainment might end up ruining our marriage. Any help would be appreciated.

—Horny in Hillsboro

Double H: Let’s explore your options. Either you jerk-off while looking at a TV screen and flirt with women who aren’t legally allowed to touch you, or you get blue balls until the girl next door starts to look less and less like a Sasquatch, at which point you end up cheating on your lady. It is a medically proven fact that frequent busting of the nuts reduces the risk of prostate cancer as well as anxiety. My wrists are the strongest part of my body and thanks to that, I’m not looking at any anal-fingerings or stress panics in the near future.

Now, if your wife wants to know why she can’t be the sole recipient of your man-chowder showers, use the following analogy: tacos are good. In fact, tacos are great. I can’t think of anything I’d rather shove in my mouth than a hot, crunchy, Mexican Masterpiece. But, if I eat nothing but tacos, I’m eventually going to resent the taste of them. Therefore, I enjoy an occasional burrito or tostada in the privacy of my own home, with multiple-angle options and preferably a lesbian Catholic school girl zombie snuff theme. Even though your wife’s pussy isn’t gushing with sour cream and tomatoes (if it is, you’ve got bigger things to worry about), you can probably see where I’m going with this. Unless she’d rather have you stuffing your sperm worm into the neighbor girl, she’s gonna have to learn to live with the box of tissues next to your computer.

Dear Statutory Ray, I will probably be single on Valentine’s Day and it might seem lame, but I’m really lonely. Do you have any suggestions as to where I can go, what I can do or who I can call to solve my problem? Thanks a bunch! —Emo in Estacada

Dear Emo: When’s the last time someone besides yourself went through your cell phone history? How many times in the last week have you apologized for being yourself, staying out late, smelling like cheap perfume or buying video games? Who called you to whine last Sunday afternoon when you sat around Club 205 staring at tits and watching the game? Never, none and no one. Keep it that way.

All too often, Valentine’s Day serves as a reminder to single people that they’re lonely. I feel that the stigma is bullshit and that happy couples are more deserving of a wake-up call than so-called "lonely" singles. For the unattached person, three months of salary can add up to purchase a decent car, a PS3 and a bag of weed. For a person in a relationship, three months salary results in a circular piece of metal that has no intrinsic value other than the blood of dead foreigners and a price tag from Tom Shane. It’s just not worth it.

The irony of the traditional giving-of-a-box-of-chocolates-to-a-loved-one gesture is overwhelming considering the Forrest Gump mantra: when you’re in a relationship, life isn’t like a box of chocolates, in that you do know what you’re gonna get, day in and day out. Plus, sucking on flower-shaped objects that don’t have a caramel filling is quite unrewarding. Valentine’s Day falls on a Thursday this year. If you’re single, you have the whole weekend to round up more ass than a single occupancy toilet in a shit factory.

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