posted by Joe Anaya on October 20th, 2014

Once in a blue moon, I end up in the company of a stripper. I’m not generally that kind of guy. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy looking at the curve a woman as much as the next guy. It’s just that I think too much to enjoy strip clubs.

Strip clubs are like Disneyland. When you first get there it’s all, “Wow look at this place! This is awesome! I’ve never seen so much eye-candy.” But then you start thinking about the stuff that goes on behind the scenes: the hidden cameras, the controlling bosses, the employees desperately pretending to be enjoying themselves while subconsciously trying to salve their inner-child’s need to be loved. And then there’s the strip clubs.

Even though those kinds of thoughts typically ruin my fun, I try not to rain on everyone else’s parade. So when a buddy has a bachelor party and inevitably somewhere along the way, there’s a stripper involved, I go with the flow.

At Matt W’s bachelor party, we were at a strip club even though he’s not really a strip club guy either. (I think he was the first of us to get married.) Our party flags down the first lady to come by and tell her we want a lap dance for the last day of our buddy’s bachelorhood. She takes the wad of cash, sets up a chair, places Matt W in the seat of honor/shame and gets to work.

It’s at this point, we notice that this young lady is not very attractive. (That may sound sexist, but this is a story about strippers so what do you expect.) I’m not even sure she had all her teeth. Although to this day, Matt W. swears he already noticed her lack of teeth and the aroma one can only get from smoking 3 packs of cigarettes in a three-hour shift.

At first it’s fun, then it’s funny, then it’s embarrassing for Matt W. which is still funny, then it gets creepy, so we cut it short and thank her for her time.

“You still have more time,” she informs us.

“That’s okay, you can keep it,” we sheepishly offer as we bee line for the exit.

At another friend’s bachelor party, held at the best man’s house, the best man hired a stripper to come to the house. First a big guy in a leather jacket showed up to make sure it was okay to bring in Nikki. I’m not sure what situation would have been a no-go. “A room full of drunken guys waiting for a naked woman. Yeah, that’s okay.”

Nikki’s show was way more risqué than the strip-o-gram the mother-in-law hired earlier in the evening. Let’s just say, Nikki had a lot more clothes hit the ground and a lot more edible items in her bag of tricks (Which grossed me out as I started thinking about where those vegetables had been, and what her childhood must have been like and… Damn, my thinking). I let the big head do the thinking for the little head and ruined the evening. Oh well.

Most of my friends are married, and we’re all middle aged so even if there’s a second marriage, I don’t anticipate spending any time with a stripper any time in the future. Although with kids, I’ll probably spend time at Disneyland assuredly thinking about strippers.

File Under Jack of all Trades