Taking an unnecessary smoke break during a weekend shift, I had the misfortune of eavesdropping on a couple of douche bags in Heineken T-shirts and backwards baseball caps.
"Man, all strippers are the same," Todd informed Joey with confidence. "Insane, stupid whores." Joey started and finished his pint of Budweiser in a single chugging motion, belching his response to Todd, "strippers are fucking stupid man."
After finishing their discussion, Todd and Joey left the smoking balcony and returned to the rack. Here, they spent roughly $400, apparently on some "lucky bachelor" who chose to spend his final evening of single life making fun of the only hot piece of naked ass he will ever see again. As the group pulled out of the parking lot shortly after 2:30 a.m., headlights off and tires squealing, I made small talk with one of the dancers.
"Hey, tell the boss that I don’t need a walk out. I have to get up early tomorrow to teach class." Without her skimpy top, g-string and half-empty Jack and Coke, Fawn looked like any other grade school teacher. The only accessory that made her look especially attractive was her pair of prescription, hornrimmed glasses resting quietly in front of the two dark circles, indicating Fawns’ exhaustion. As Fawn buckled her seat belt and turned her steering wheel towards home, I smiled a bittersweet grin knowing a portion of every tax dollar from Joey and Chad’s paycheck goes toward employing an "insane, stupid whore" to teach their children.
Strippers are performers; naked, flaky, and occasionally alcoholic performers but performers nonetheless. Strippers work exclusively for gratuity in an environment where their boss is often more of a threat than the most despised of customers. Performing acrobatic feats for compensation roughly equal to the price of a Crunchwrap Supreme. Further, compensation for the work performed by strippers is rarely proportional to the effort they put into their job. A dancer that times her movements to fit the songs playing during her set while performing acts of contortionism will make less money than the lazy girl who follows her, if said lazy girl has a better set of fake tits. At the end of the shift, a stripper walks away with a wage respective of her ability to maneuver properly through a maze of psychological and physiological hell. Insane? Try mentally drained. The last time I spent eight hours dancing naked and talking strangers out of money, Burning Man was still cool. I challenge anyone to take the "stripper challenge" and work a single shift at any club. E-mail me ([email protected]) with your success story. Otherwise, the "insane" rumor shall be officially put to rest.
Moving on to the "stupid" comment, let’s use a hypothetical scenario. You walk into a strip club. An attractive woman approaches you in blinking heels wearing a sarcastic smile and a half-shirt that barely covers her tits. "Hey there douche bag, I’m about to convince your loser ass that you have a nun’s chance in hell of getting me in the sack. But not before you overdraft your girlfriend’s Visa card to buy me water shots and stare at what my doctor sees for free from three feet away while a large Samoan man named Cell Block looks over your shoulder." Not exactly an easy sell, now is it? The bottom line is simple: stupid is what stupid tips. Hennessy only acts like an idiot because that’s what you, the customer, want from her. If you and your "brahs" are spending a rent’s worth of income in a strip club, chances are you have neither the game nor the guts to play the field at a hook-up bar and dancers acting like idiots are simply stooping to your level.
A fool and his money are soon parted. That money is taken from the fool, not thrown at the fool while Justin Timberlake swoons the speakers. In other words, the woman filling up her gas tank with your broken dreams is hardly "stupid."
Okay, so now that the "insane" and "stupid" charges have been thrown out of stripper-customer court, let’s move on to the final argument: A "whore" is someone who fucks for money. A stripper is someone who has successfully used the whore formula to make money without fucking. A whore, if given money, will put out. A stripper, if given money, will ask for more. I have been on several dates with strippers in which I have spent hundreds of dollars only to be dropped off with nothing more than a pair of Smurf nuts, yet somehow I can get a Portland State business studies major in the sack for the price of a single tall white mocha with extra whip. By mere estimation, it would seem that precious little Jessica on the volleyball team is more of a whore than the stripper who sits behind her in class. Take a look through the ads in this magazine. If you find "Our Girls Have Sex for Money!" printed anywhere, fucking e-mail me and I’ll pay for the first round. In all reality, you’re more likely to find a hooker by MySpace stalking the OSU women’s sports teams.
I have proposed to several women in my lifetime, primarily for shock value or as a result of boredom. This time, however, I think I might actually be serious.
Between knife-wielding, showtunephobes, midnight train tickets, Costco-sized boxes of Plan B and a seemingly endless array of strippers, stalkers, fans and freaks, it’s safe to say that we’re fucking stuck with each other regardless of what gets tossed in the mix. I don’t have any money that you can rob me of should this not work out and I’m pretty sure that I probably might not have any STDs. You don’t smell like fish and whiskey like the other women I’ve slept with and you even paid cover at my last concert. Damn.
Linda, will you marry me?
Author’s note: this didn’t work out, but it was worth a shot.