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.