God, I hate strippers. No, no, not all strippers. This isn't a religious or politically correct article, and I'm not one of those “I wish I was born with a vagina” male feminists protesting for women's rights (that in itself is a dishonor to the great Al Bundy). I'm referring to a specific type of stripper that I'm sure every man has encountered in his strip bar journeys. This breed of stripper is known as the “gentlemen's club” stripper. That's the kind I hate.

First off, I hate that “gentlemen's club” moniker. Call it what it really is: a strip club. The gentlemen's clubs go out of their way to be fancy and upscale. They try so hard to be different than what they're intended to be; as if their strip club isn't a place for you to find a hot girl to give you a boner because your rancid hag of a wife isn't cutting it anymore. No, they're an “upscale place for gentlemen.” Riight.

The gentlemen's club stripper will sit next to you and gab like she's actually interested in you. She will talk, talk, talk, talk about personal matters of your life and will not shut her cock-trap up until you ask for a lap dance. To make you feel even more comfortable she might throw in a few details about her life. “Oh, I'm just stripping my way through medical school, because I think I'm smart enough to become a doctor one day, but I'll probably just drop out and strip here until I hit 40. Then when I get fired for being old and ugly, I can work as a waitress at a rest stop for the rest of my miserable existence! I sure hope I stumble upon a rich man to leech off of and pretend I love.”

If I wanted to pay $20 to hear a bitch talk for half an hour, I'd take a girl out on a date, not go to a place where it's the girls' job to give me a boner. Let me share a personal experience of mine with you. I went to one of these gentlemen's clubs with a friend one night. We started drinking, and of course, staring at the many hot women on stage rubbing the pole between their ass cheeks like a giant cock. It wasn't the piece of ass on stage I had a problem with; she was doing a fine job of keeping me erect. What turned my sequoia boner into a soft soggy twig was the bitch sitting next to me and my friend. This was the true gentlemen's club stripper, and she had just committed the one act a stripper should never perform on duty: starting a long, drawn out conversation.

She was interrogating my friend, as if she was his potential girlfriend. Even more boggling, my friend bought right into it. He was convinced that she gave a shit about his life. (I used to give my friend way to much credit for his supposed intelligence; now he's proven to me that it is possible for human beings to have negative IQs.) As I sat there enjoying an alcoholic beverage, watching the girls on stage, this con artist began using her “fake friend” tactics on me too, trying to infect me with her bullshit. Fortunately, my high and mighty immune system was easily able to fight it off.

Judas chair - medieval torture stool
The Judas Chair: a seasoned stripper's warm-up device.
She asked me my name, and I told her. Then, instead of leaving me the fuck alone, she continued. “Where do you work at?” she asked. I told her I was a security guard at a casino. Then she got cute with me. “Oh, so you're the officer who threw me out last time I was there.” This time it really got to the point where I felt like picking up one of the stools and impaling her anus with it Judas Chair style. I didn't though, because I felt no need to mess up a perfectly good stool. I laughed, not because I found her comment humorous, but because I found it funny that she thought I would fall for her fakeness.

The horrible cunt then made a false accusation questioning my masculinity: “It seems like you're not having a good time here.” I wish the TV in the strip bar had been playing the news, and the president had come out and announced that murder was perfectly legal. I'd have no problem firing a nail gun off into her forehead to silence her at that moment. I would then use the same nails to build her a crude casket and bury her on site.

I told her I was fine, and eventually she got the point that I wasn't falling for her bullshit. My friend insisted to her that I was being shy. Umm, bashful for refusing to talk to a fake person? If I wanted to talk to a fake person for a half a fucking hour, I'd chat up a mall mannequin. What's the point in having a meaningless conversation with a girl whose job is to make you hard? It's not like you'll ever speak to her again (unless you're a regular there… another problem entirely). My friend's idiocy truly showed when he later told me he exchanged numbers with her. (No chance, he's Asian.) Let me tell you something, unless you use rolls of $100 bills to wipe your ass, that bitch will not pick up her phone when she sees your number. That or she gave you a fake one to begin with. I swear my friend has such shit for brains that if she wrote down her 555-555-5555, he would've believed it, simply because she's hot. I later gave him hell for shit feeding her the lie that I was being shy. To test if he was really as stupid as he proved to be, I asked him: “Why the fuck do the strippers in that place have to talk so goddamn much?” He proved my point with his answer: “She's just trying to be nice.” Listen, stupid friend of mine, if I wanted to pay $20 to hear a bitch talk for half an hour, I'd take a girl out on a date, not go to a place where it's the girls' job to give me a boner. Upon hearing this, his head exploded, because the basketball-sized logic I dunked on his head was too big for his pea-sized brain to handle.

All that bitch's talking did was remind me of all the bullshit reality guys have to endure with chicks. A REAL strip bar is an escape from that reality—a fantasy where the girls just want to assist you with your bone, and then jump it (even though they're taking your money). Every man wishes it was that easy with women. That's why strip clubs vacuum men's wallets dry so easily. When I go to a strip bar, I want the stripper to do her job: dance on stage or jump on my lap and grind away. In a real strip club, that isn't afraid to call itself a strip club, the strippers do make small talk, but they get right to the point: your lap. They don't play games when it comes to getting you hard. A strip bar is supposed to be a place of sleaze and debauchery, not a facade for upscale gentleman.

Here is a great example on how all strip clubs should operate. I took my friend to a strip club on his 19th birthday. A hot European stripper got on my lap and immediately brought the friction. Whatever small talk she made had to do with whether I was having a good time. Hell yeah I was, because after that, she jerked me off and turned my cock into a clam chowder volcano. When I fired off my soupy magma into her hands, they incinerated right before my cock's eye.

Honestly, do the bitches in “gentlemen's clubs” really need to have a half hour conversation with the customer? Do you, as a stripper, have to know where I work, or what my fucking name is? And why do I have to ask for the lap dance? You're not a nice girl outside of your job; you're a demented wench who stalks all her ex-boyfriends and freaks out when they find someone who's not a psychotic whore. I know you're here to rob us blind—just get straight to the point and grind my penis like my pants fire out $100 bills.

Remember guys, real men go to strip bars, not gentlemen's clubs.

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