How To Date Men at a Titty Bar

If you’re not a stripper, you can skip this. Then again, the man you date might occasionally visit such an establishment, so you might as well understand how he’s treated. If you are a stripper, I’m sitting on my hands, I don’t have my wallet right now, and no, I don’t want a fucking VIP dance.

When the DJ calls you out to the stage, scan the area, and make immediate eye contact with the least swinely of the pigs in the pen. Pick one who you might—after a long sex drought, and lots of tequila—actually sleep with. Spin around the pole a few times, get down on all fours, crawl up to him, remove his baseball cap, and tell him how sexually frustrated you are.

Side note: He’s well aware that you’re far from sexually frustrated, but he’ll play along because you have boobies.

Speaking of boobies, now’s a good time to grab him by the back of his head, smash his face into your tit valley, and pound his cheeks with your nipples. I hope he’s not allergic to your vanilla skin cream. Hives are hard to work around.

Continue your dance. Ignore him a bit. Arch your back and bounce your vag on the stage like you’re tacking carpet. Then, glance back at him, make eye contact, and smile.

By now, DJ Crackhead will probably call Ginger to the stage. Gather your three folded ones, step down, and stroll over to the target. Sit on his lap. Repeat the “sexually frustrated” nonsense, and ask him to take you in the back for a “special” private dance. Tell him he can do almost anything back there, and it’s only $20 a song. He’ll probably insist on four or five songs, tops. Ignore that.

Side note two: He knows that while he may be allowed to grab your ass or pinch a nipple, there will be no sucking or fucking, unless, of course, you are in Tijuana.

Once you have him back in the private room, strip down to your chonies, and start a-grinding. Whisper in his ear all sorts of compliments about that lonely lump in his pants.

Side note three: He knows you’ve been railed many times by peni (I prefer that to “penises”) far superior to the acorn in his lap. He doesn’t care.

Turn around, squat onto his lap, and grind away until he makes cumsies. If you’re exceptionally talented, you can check your email while doing this. Once he climaxes, climb off, kiss his cheek, and hand him a wetnap.

By now, it has probably been something like six songs. That’s $120. Not bad for twenty minutes, but why not aim higher? What’s ole gooey shorts gonna do? Tell him it was awesome, that you came too, and the tab is $200.

Side note four: He’s sure you did not come. What he is currently experiencing is post-ejaculation depression. All he wants to do is get rid of you and find a way to cover the wet spot on his pants so his bar-side buddies don’t see it.

If he expresses regret or balks at the price, shrug, point out the bouncer, collect your $200 (plus tip), and move along to your next lover.

About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.