Dancer management lessons
As mentioned in an earlier post, I had a fs double-header at the CWNN on Monday. I went back today (Wednesday) to follow-up and to dip my wick again with one or more of them. I entered the club and it was as if a chill came over the place. The dancers ignored me. The waitresses who know me and with whom I have friendly banter ignored me. It was as if I had the plague or something. I was there for about 30 minutes and nobody was talking to me. My two fs dancers from Monday were all over the place giving table dances everywhere but around me. My other fs dancers weren't there. After some effort I finally got one of Monday's fs dancers to sit next to me and talk. It seems that after I left the club on Monday there was a huge fight over me that involved a lot of dancers and waitresses. Unbeknownst to me was that the two dancers I had fs with on Monday are best friends. (Yeah, you can see it coming.) It seems that after I left, the two best friends noticed that I had spent a lot of time with each of them in the VIP. They compared notes. As it was described to me, hair flew, glasses broke, all hell broke loose. A couple of the waitresses tried to break it up. One of them (who I tip generously for intel) actually tried to defend my honor. It seems that a settlement was reached between the best friends. The agreement is that neither of them can take me to the VIP. They can only give me table dances. Nuts! The dancer that was telling me all this slipped me her phone number on a napkin and told me to call her because she wants me anyway and that we can get together outside the club.
So, fellow mongers; live by the sword, die by the sword.
Needless to say, since I wasn't getting any at the CWNN today, I left and went to the club I visited on Tuesday where I had the triple-header. That wasn't a good idea either. My first dancer from Tuesday is a dynamite hottie who is always in demand, but when I arrived, she was sitting alone. I asked her why she was alone and she said that nobody wanted her. She indicated for me to sit in the chair beside her. When I did, she began playing with my crotch and she perked up immediately. And so did I. She invited me to the VIP and, since I was now in a state where I was not going to be denied something carnal, I agreed. Once in the VIP, she got comfortable and began talking instead of dancing. I was a bit flustered because I suddenly realized this sweet thing was telling me that she wanted me to be her boyfriend. It was like a marriage proposal but without the ring. Now, keep in mind that I barely know her other than one fs session the day before. I asked her why she wanted me to be her boyfriend and she rattled off a whole bunch of reasons, but the three that caught my attention were that I had a black dick (yes, she did actually say I have a black dick even though I'm the whitest guy in the club). She explained that my dick was bigger than the black dicks that she liked. Next, she asked me if I was ever in a porn movie because I had a porn dick. (Yeah, I know. Those of you that know me are now rolling on the floor laughing your asses off.) I explained that, no, I've never been in a porn flick. The third thing she said that caught my attention was that if I became her boyfriend she would satisfy me twice a day, every day. ("I promise. I want to fuck you all the time. I want that dick to be mine!") In return, her only demand was that I never come to the club when she was working. I'm now thinking that this might not be a bad arrangement since I've established myself at other clubs in town and don't really need to come to hers; especially if she's taking care of my sex needs. She rattled off about a dozen other features that were meant to impress me so that I'd agree to be her boyfriend. (She has her own house, her own money, she can cook, etc.) I told her that I'd think about it and, as if to seal the deal (in her mind) she whipped out Mr. Happy, began sucking on it, then covered him with one of her condoms (damn, why won't she use mine?!), jumped on and rode me like she owned the equipment using three different positions. She's a surprisingly nice kisser. She asked me how old I was and I told her that I was old enough to be her father (she's 22) and she seemed to think that was terrific.
I have to admit, she's impressive and a damn good sex partner. The fact that every guy drools over her is a bit of a turn-on. The fact that every guy gets some from her is not so much a turn-on. Oh, yeah, did I mention that she promised that I'd be her only lover? She would be fun to have in my rotation twice a day, but then I'd have to give up my Female Pimp and all the happiness that she brings to me (literally). I'd have to narrow down my fs dancers to just those that couldn't live without me when they got horny. I don't know. It's a tough decision, but I'm not going to partake of her offer just yet. I am going to string her along for a while because I like the sex and I like the fact that she's enamored with me enough that she wants me to be her boyfriend. Maybe I'll test her to find out just how much she's willing to do to get me to be her boyfriend. We have a real-life date coming up soon, so I'll see how that goes.
Dancer management lessons for Wednesday.
Sexhobbyist
So you want to date a stripper..!?
A Good read.. although SH has his bases covered
I think. (as far as the $ situation goes)
[url]http://www.identitytheory.com/insight/bruns9.html[/url]
So you want to date a stripper?
by Greg Bruns
So you got a stripper's phone number, huh? Called her up and chatted about this and that and had a nice little conversation with her, huh? What's her name? Cinnamon? Going out with her for lunch on Saturday, eh? Very Nice. Here are a few tips — because dating a stripper is a hazardous affair and the only thing you're going to get out of this insane ride are bragging rights for the rest of your life. This article is based on information gleaned from my brief stay in Stripperville.
First of all, you've got to have a destination in mind before you embark on this venture. What do you want from the Stripper? A few fun evenings out on the town with a little hottie on your arm? Sex? Free passes to the Titty Bar where you met her? Everlasting true love? Handjob? Look — walking into this without a goal is certain means for failure, because she operates on her own terms and if you let her manipulate you and lead the show, you're sunk. She meets 50 guys a night who are potential dates, so she's just playing the odds with you. She's thinking she just might meet someone who can handle her, but no one can. Trust me. No one can handle her. You'll never change her or pull her out of Stripperville. Remember that and keep your eyes on the prize.
Several points to consider:
1. You're not Special.
You're one of 18 guys she's juggling right now, and one of a hundred who witness her naked glory every night. It's her job to make guys feel like they're the only one she's interested in. She gets paid handsomely for that skill. That sultry stare she's giving you across the dinner table with those piercing green eyes is the same look that forces 75 men-a-night to fumble for their wallets and jam fistfuls of green into her G-string even though they're six months behind on child support.
2. She makes more money than you. Get used to it.
Keep in mind that she pulls down more than most corporate attorneys (who also represent a large portion of her clientele). She's ripping 2-5K a week tax-free, and you shouldn't expect her to pay for anything. It's not in her nature. Guys fawn all over her every single night and offer her stacks of crisp Benjamins in an effort to get their knobs slobbered on in the parking lot behind the club (something she'll claim she's never done, but the other girls at the club have — right — she's done it at least once).
3. If you get emotionally involved with this girl, you're in for a hurricane of pain.
Your future with this chick: broken dates, shattered windows, holes punched in doors, a slew of ex-boyfriends and husbands, a thousand "friends" calling all the time, an encyclopedia of restraining orders she has out on said exes and a couple customers who stalked her for six months. Her apartment is littered with soggy G-strings and cheap 8-inch heeled shoes, along with empty tubes of body glitter, mascara, prescription drugs, zit cream, Aqua Net and Polaroid pictures of her and her "friends" engaged in some drinking and dancing on St. Patrick's Day last year. The Polaroid pictures of her and her stripper friends getting nasty for the entire bar are still circulating around town because one of the guys she dated last month stole them out of her nightstand when he sensed the end was near and he wasn't going to be getting any more Cinnamon Love.
3. She has more guy friends than you had all throughout high school and college, collectively.
Sometimes they'll just drop in when you two are hanging out and you're thinking it might get romantic. The guy friend will ask her — right in front of you — if she wants to go to Happy Hour at the Knick Knack Paddy Whack Lounge and she'll look at you with bright eyes and say, "Yeah — let's go to Happy Hour with Tim here — it'll be fun!" And you, still gripping on to that glimmer of hope for some pussy, will say yes and you'll spend the next three hours in a simmering rage while you quaff watered-down Bud Light drafts, because she's the most popular girl in the bar and every person with a penis in there is looking to hop on the Stripper Wagon that is blazing through Stripperville at a very unsafe speed.
All of those "guy friends" started out just like you, chief. They saw the Promised Titty Land and thought they could get there, too. Once they tired of the bullshit and drama, or she found someone else, they were relegated to "friends." They could've bought a fucking sailboat with all the money they blew on young Cinnamon, and now they hang on to some last vestige of hope, thinking that she may just get drunk enough some night and let them put their spit on the slit. You guys could all get together and swap the exact same stories about wasted nights, full-blown disappointment, and confused, desperate whack-off sessions when you all found out that dating a stripper is no different than trying to debate Nietzsche with a Dalmation.
4. Her life is a flurry of activity selected at random.
This stimulates her sub-par self-esteem. At 10am she will be rocketing down the freeway at 130mph on the back of some guy's crotch rocket. By 1pm she's already at some different guy's house, swimming naked in the pool with him and his Great Dane named Robo. By 5pm she's doing "X" at some other guy's house, and from there she goes home for the five-minute shower and gets ready for work.
5. She'll blow you off for three dates in a row.
When you keep calling, she knows she has you. That Saturday night dinner and special room you've secured at the fucking Ritz will be vaporized after she tells you she's going to Mexico with some of her "friends." Her whimsical trip to Mexico will forever after be known as Cabo Wabo Orgy 2002, and you'll likely come across some digital pix of her fellating two guys on the beach in Cabo while you're scanning some amateur porn site on the Net.
It's a crazy affair, for sure, but just remember these do's and don'ts and you'll be fine:
DON'T ever call her and not announce your name. Her phone rings more than all of the lines at the New York Times combined. Don't put her in the precarious position of trying to guess your name. "Is it Steve? Rick? Mike? Dave? Javier? Justin? Michael? Chris? Matt? Juan? Adam? Alex? Roberto? Ed? Brian? Eugene? Tim?" She'll make it quite clear that she has many suitors, which excites her to no end, and puts you in a bottle of bourbon all alone by 9pm that night. Try to sound upbeat: "Hi Cinnamon, this is Greg, I was just walking through Tiffany's, looking at a $900 sterling-silver ashtray and thought of you." (She smokes. They all smoke. She'd gush over an ashtray from Tiffany's. Don't buy it, though. Make her think you would've bought it for her, if only there was a rose engraved on it.)
DON'T ask her about her fucking tattoos unless you want to look like one of her customers.
DON'T go see her at her job unless it's absolutely necessary. A necessity would be getting her condo key so you can go feed her cat. If you get to that point, FYI, you're now one of her "friends," and you can wrap up the sexual fantasies you have of her by beating off right on her pillow after you throw the cat some Meow Mix.
DON'T try to keep up with her. Don't skip work to spend the day with her. She works nights and you work days. Keep your job. Her days are spent at tanning booths, Frederick's of Hollywood and chic outdoor cafés where her and her stripper "friends" eat poached salmon salads with dressing on the side.
DO carry lots of hundreds in a money clip. Make sure she sees you strip off the bills when the dinner check comes. Or better yet, whip out the Corporate Amex and toss it on the table like you're folding a bad poker hand. Clasp your hands behind your head and lean back into your chair after you make the Amex toss, as if to say, "See that? Unlimited credit, baby."
DO kiss her on the cheek when she shows up at your place for the nice dinner you're going to cook her, and knock her fishnets off with your ability to handle the cuisine and wine. At some early point in the evening though, you're going to have to find her cell phone in her purse and steal the battery out of it, because that thing will ring incessantly and she will eventually find something or someone better to do. Pull the battery or she's going to get some call at midnight, when you've got the Miles Davis playing lightly in the background, and the candles illuminating the room in a soft glow and you think you're about to "storm the beach." This call will undoubtedly be from one of her "friends" who is going to an after-hours party at some country bar and all of the sudden she'll squeal with delight and jot down the address on her hand and say to you, "Let's go Two-Stepping at the Country Bunker with John and Kevin!"
DO remember this: strippers are more fucked up than The Who was during their 1973 U.K. "Quadrophenia" Tour. They're a bad lot to hang out with, because there's so much freedom and money in Stripperville. They've got it all and they don't need you or anyone else. All they need is their Xanax and Raspberry Stoli on the rocks and their job. Yeah — the job. That's what fuels the lifestyle and you're never going to pry her from it. Don't even suggest it.
If your goal from the aforementioned list is "sex," you need to understand that it's going to take at least five dates. At least. Figure $250 per date. Compound that and it's a nice little used Hobie Cat or a decent house payment. While that fine body, devoid of tan lines, might fuel you to the fifth date, I'd recommend looking into escort services in your area. With an escort, you're getting what you want right off the bat, and it'll likely cost you half of what Cinnamon is charging.
Good luck in Stripperville. It'll be a short stay, but something you'll talk about for years to come.
Visits to Tucson Strip Clubs
Visited several clubs in Tucson last week. Stopped by TD West a lunch time one day. Had one couch dance and was not impressed. Warned by bouncer that no touching was allowed. It was freezing in the club and quickly left.
Also visited TENS. Good looking club but few dancers on a Friday afternoon, Saturday afternoon was a little better.
Had a $2 Steak Dinner and a $3 beer at Curves on a Saturday night. This was great value. Didn't have any dances.
The Candy Store was my favorite. Shiloh gave the best table dances, better than many VIP rooms. I didn't go to the VIP with her but wish I had. She never tried to upsell me to the VIP. Stacey also gave good floor dances and is a good choice to take to the VIP. Was wearing shorts and these dancers took advantage of the opportunity.
Squire Kent
