I love strip clubs. Honest. I probably spend more time in these establishments than Champagne Papi. This is surprising to no one that actually knows me. Except I doubt my mama knows. She would likely be less than thrilled if I were to regale her of my affinity for “gentlemen’s clubs” and probably silently ponder whether I was in need of some sort of cognitive behavioral therapy. But I have no shame whatsoever, and I’m very vocal about it.
Earlier this year, I took my talents to The Peach State to celebrate my birthday, for the primary purpose of making it rain all over Atlanta. I deemed it my “World Tour of Strip Clubs” since that’s one of the more significant attractions the city’s known for. Long story short. Have stripper? Will travel!
And no, I’m not a lesbian (and there would be absolutely nothing wrong with it if I was). And no one thinks I’m a lesbian, either. Aside from that guy I once went on two dates with who believed I swam in the lady pond when he hadn’t fucked me by the second time he saw me. Yeah. That crisis was quickly averted with a roundhouse kick. But I digress.
I sometimes wonder what God thinks about my strip club fetish, but then I shrug it off because he did create the female body, soooo…he must be somewhat pleased with this display of how the rest of humanity delights in it. Even if it’s embroiled in excessive debauchery for the most part.
Alas, I’m the head cheerleader, quarterback, lead rebounder, starting pitcher, et al. when it comes to championing scrippas. I merely enjoy the general atmosphere of strip clubs. And I think this can be attributed to my relentlessly extroverted nature when placed in situations with Blacks on Blacks on Blacks. I become a more exuberant version of myself in the company of my brethren when trap music is pounding from the DJ booth.
But twist it thou not. Before you go thinking you can just slide off up into a strip club without being briefed, STAHP. Collaborate. And listen. There are rules to this shit, and fantasies come at cost, so pay attention. The following guidelines are more important than The Ten Crack Commandments.
One.
If thou hast no stacks, stay yo’ ass in the house! It is beyond déclassé to go to a club where there is ladybait having zero dollas earmarked for the purpose of paying said women. Men who whine and complain about how they won’t pay for what they can “get at home” are annoying beyond belief and delusional at best. Ahem, no. Dude, first of all. Where the fuck do you live?! You are not getting this at home unless your address is The Bunny Ranch. The purpose of going to a strip club is not to “pay for sex” (yes, I’ve heard men insinuate this fuckshit real time) or even merely observe foreign women majestically pop, lock and drop it sans clothing. If this is your actual mentality, you’re probably already a John, have missed the point altogether, and there’s not enough psychotherapy available for whatever condition you’re afflicted with. It’s about the experience. Going to a strip club is like attending a sporting event, but waaaaay more entertaining. WAY. You pay to go to professional basketball games. You pay to go to the strip club. And see the sights. If you’re cashin’ out to go see Bron Bron whip up on the Heat, but don’t want to pay Victory Red to melodically remove her G-string, you’re probably a misogynistic asshole.
A friend once rather gleefully instructed me, “Don’t spend all ya birthday money at the strip club!” I matter-of-factly retorted, “Birthday money? I’m spendin’ my rent money!”
I literally loathe seeing men standing by idly not tipping the dancers. Like, this is someone’s legitimate profession. Entitlement, much? Not to mention, have you seen the shit these women are doing? Everything from pole tricks to stunts with props, and Lord only knows what else in between. The last time I was at a strip club, one of the acts involved a Corona bottle commandeered from my table. Need I say more? I took a year of pole classes once, and I got pretty damn good, but that shit is work. Do you hear me? And I’m not even half as good as some of these women. This is an art form to be revered. So, respect the conglomerate, bish. Pay. Up. If I ever catch you doing otherwise, I’m issuing a Five. Dollar. Fine. Of the Ike Turner ilk.
Two.
When the dancers come to your table, have some fucking manners and invite them to sit down; have a snack, perhaps. I mean, weren’t you listening when the Ying Yang Twins told you, Strippers Gotta Eat, Too? Engage them in half-way decent conversation, instead of just gawking at them like you’ve never seen a naked woman. It’s t&a. If you have sex with women, you’re acquainted. Further, just because someone takes their clothes off to pay the bills doesn’t mean they’re a vapid human being. …But above all, make sure they eat. At the very least, ask them if they want a drink or a tapa. Women who put in that much work need to nosh in between sets, and we don’t need anyone stroking out onstage due to hypoglycemia during their set. ‘K, pumpkin’?
Three.
Ladies, if you take your man (or accompany him) to the strip club, for God’s sake, buy that man a fuckin’ table dance! The last time I did this, the strip club collapsed. No, really. A few weeks later. Show your appreciation in this manner, and his love for you will know no bounds. However, if the thought of doing this makes you feel awkward, uneasy, intimidated, the least bit sheepish or even slightly squeamish, you are simply not about that life, and this shit ain’t fa you. To avoid going into a convulsive state, remain a minimum of 500 feet from the entrances of these establishments at all times.
Finally.
Your excursion to the strip club is not complete until you take a picture with your leftover duckets fanned out in front of your face. If you happen to be so fortunate. I’m usually not.
