Act like you’ve seen tits before.  Don’t stare at her vagina like it’s a creature from another planet.  And most of all, act like you’re aware they’re parts of a real, live, thinking, breathing, feeling human being just like yourself.  

It’s ironic when certain customers treat dancers as objects who are only good for one thing, then complain when the dancers treat them in exactly the same way. 

If you think that “talking dirty” to your dancer will turn her on — It won’t.  It’ll just make her think you’re a dipshit. 

There’s no place like a strip club for escaping the realities of life.  Everything within is designed to distract, to attract, to dazzle, to divert your attention from whatever world you left on the other side of its door.  There are no slow, sad songs played in strip clubs, no quiet corners for crying in one’s beer — The smiles are wide, the music is loud, the beats are hard, and the lights are ever flashing.  And what sights are illuminated under those disco-flashing, pulsing beams!  The ladies are all desirable, and are all on full salacious display as they move, sway, swing, and grind to the relentless beat.  If your eyes do not immediately fall upon your heart’s desire, fear not - for variety is a constant, and the vision of your dreams may only be a song or two away from her turn on stage. 

Sure, it’s a fake environment …  And if you do not already know all that glitters is not gold, you’re a fool - and from your money you will soon be parted.  But if the tans are too perfect, the decorations too chintzy, the make-up of both the room and its inhabitants a little too heavily applied, that only goes to its overall charm:  We do not want realism within these walls.  We know that reality is still out there, waiting for us when we leave, but until then let’s all put on our masks and pretend to be whatever, whoever, we want in a roomful of pretenders using fake names and fakes stories and fake lies about fake lives, each dancing his or her own intricate choreography of illusion and delusion in this masquerade of hedonism.  Pleasure and desire are the only things that are truly real in this tango between the players and the playing, each seeking to satiate their own needs be they either carnal or monetary.  The happiest end to the dance is when each partner is satisfied to have received their fair share of one, without having to give up too much of the other. 

We all know that eventually the dance will end, and that reality is still outside the door.  But while inside, we take shelter in the audacious artificiality of it all and try not to think too hard about later. 

If you go to strip clubs but no dancer considers you her ‘regular’, you’re missing out on most of what a good club experience offers.  It’s like being a fan of music but never going to a concert, or being a fan of a football team but only watching them by yourself at home on TV — Yeah, sure, you can have a good time alone, but …

I love being a regular.  It means that I always have someone who will be glad to see me as soon as I enter the door — In my case, my particular someone comes squealing, at high pitch and high speed, across the room and leaps into my arms, burying my face between her ample breasts.  Every.  Damn.  Time.  I enter the room.  Totally not kidding. 

It also means being able to skip the hustle bullshit — She knows why I’m there and already knows what I like.  In turn, I’m there to spend money on her and if another dancer gets any of my money, it’s with either her implied or implicit permission — sometimes a friend of hers, sometimes a new girl she wants to see do well.  Otherwise, we are there for each other:  She makes every customer in the room want to know what my secret is, and in turn I try to make every dancer wish they were her.  I especially love tip wars — Every now and then, some random dude will think that throwing a few extra bucks at my friend will take her away from my table.  I just smile, walk to the stage, and  … 

Gently, caressingly, whispering things that only she can hear, I’ll cover her from neck to knees in bills as she lays spread on the stage in front of me.  Then she’ll rise through the layer of money, seemingly not caring where it falls, wrap her arms around me and kiss me, embracing me with an intensity that speaks of much more than a casual relationship.  At last we’ll part, and I’ll give the other guy a smug grin as I return to my table, awaiting the end of her set when she’ll be back in my arms. 

Yep, I love being a regular.  I’ve had about a dozen or so strippers consider me so over the years; though about half of those, if asked, would simply refer to me as “friend”, rather than anything that signified me being a customer.  Together, they’ve made my life worth living over the years, dancing to every song I like, making me feel like the king of the world every time I’m in the club, and spending countless hours taking my breath away and giving me memories that will last a lifetime. 

I’ve spent a lot of money on them over the years, but not nearly enough to cover the attention and real affection they’ve shown me.  I once had a dancer simply shrug off the time limit that I had paid for in a VIP room, staying in there with me for hours longer; then, dismissed any suggestion that I owed her anything more.  I don’t know what it would take to get my beloved Nyxie to leave my side while I’m in the club, but no other customer has been able to make a sufficient offer yet in the six years I’ve known her.  Please don’t read that to suggest that there’s anything extraordinary about me — Rather, it has been my very real blessing in life to be befriended by the most extraordinary ladies that I could ever hope to meet. 

That’s what being a regular has meant to me.  Sit there with your beer, by yourself, watching the show and waving off the ladies who ask if you’d like some company, if that’s what you want to do; but take it from me:  You’ll never know what you’re missing. 

coituskid:

Tonight is my new worst night ever. People. If you are too broke to buy a twenty dollar dance or give a dancer three dollars for her set you are too broke to be here. And you have no right to act upset about the dancers assuming you are here to see naked women or to act indignant about the club closing early due to not making money.

Seriously, I think strip clubs are the only places that have to worry about this.  Do people go to restaurants hoping someone will give them some free food, or go to a bar in the expectation that they will be offered free drinks?  Yet, there are plenty of people who have no problem with going to a strip club and enjoying the view, feeling no obligation whatsoever to pay for the experience; or, saying “Well I paid a cover charge when I came in” and think that covers it.