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This is the story of the time I attempted to pick up a stripper while she was working her shift at a gentlemen’s club. I failed at this attempt. As you read my story, try to figure out where it went wrong.
I showed up with two buddies. We went to the upper floor where the crowd is usually less raucous at strip clubs than on the ground floor. The waitress sat my friends at a table while I grabbed a stool at the small bar and sat there. The bar was closer to the stage my target would be dancing on, about fifteen feet off, but not so close that I would be obligated to watch her dance and feed her singles.
I knew my target peripherally. She was an acquaintance of a friend. We had briefly crossed paths at a party once, but I was dating someone seriously at the time and didn’t bother making an obvious move on her. But I had flirted and she had reciprocated my flirting. At the strip club, I did not expect her to recognize me, and even if she did I figured she wouldn’t come running over to say “Hi” because most strippers don’t like to mix “real world” with “writhing naked on a stage world”.
I ordered my drink ($10 Miller Lite) and chatted with the female bartender. I made sure not to look over at the stage for longer than a glance and kept my attention focused on the bartender and a dancer who had come by to join our conversation. I was the only man sitting at the bar. The rest were gathered in semi-circles around the two stages admiring the dancers like live artwork. Every couple of minutes one of the guys would stand and march toward the stage for extra special attention in the form of the girl waving her crotch inches from his face. The herbier guys would say “thank you” and put the singles in her garter or even in her hand, as if giving her a present. The rougher looking guys would smirk and put the singles in their mouths and the girl would pull the bills out with her cleavage or ass crack.
My target, Redbush, came up behind me and warmly said hi. She did recognize me. She was one of those girls who looks radically better with makeup and wearing little clothing.
After brief intros, I mentioned that I was there for a bachelor party but that this scene isn’t normally my thing. She noticed my bold pinky ring and asked me about it. Strippers are drawn to shiny happy things like petite pierced noses to coke lines, so I made sure to wear a lot of peacocking jewelry that night.
“Where’d you get that ring? It looks cool.”
“An ex gave it to me. Supposedly the ring signifies some kind of secret club that all ballet dancers belong to. I never gave it back after we broke up because I think it looks good on me.”
She pressed her index finger and thumb around my ring and giggled. I told her to be careful, it has special powers that cause girls to obsess over me. I then ran a pre-Style original ring routine on her. It was not as refined as Style’s version would be, but it got the job done. Her eyes glittered with attraction. I mentioned that of the two of us, I was sporting the hotter jewelry, and proved this by putting my ring against her necklace. This maneuver gave me an opportunity to break the physical barrier, not the easiest thing to do when your target is a stripper in the middle of her shift.
We talked for about ten minutes, then she said it was her turn to dance and I should come over to watch. She pointed at the stage she would soon be gyrating on. I nodded and flashed my patented half-smirk. Patented, folks.
Naturally I would not be going over to the stage like every other hard up loser. Although the girls are the ones naked before the men, they have all the power. This is something feminists don’t understand, but then feminists aren’t very smart. Walking over to the stage to watch her dance and give her dollars would have been the equivalent of neutering myself and dangling the detached sack from her rearview mirror like lucky dice. I stayed put at the bar and turned my back on Redbush, only looking over for a second to smile at her. She had a pretty vagina, her labia just the right size (no more than a 1/4 inch extended outward and right and left lobe symmetrical) and her sensibly trimmed pubes as bright red as her hair.
It is erotically electrifying to experience the juxtaposition of the nakedness of a girl you have just been talking with in a normal manner while she was partially clothed. It’s similar to how a businesswoman walking crisply down the street could blow your mind if she pulled you into an alley and ripped off her starched blouse and skirt.
After her dance, she walked up behind me, panties and bra back on, and put her hand on my shoulder.
“You didn’t see me dance! I was right over there.”
“Oh, wow, I missed it. Guess I was wrapped up in the fun over here.”
“Hey, my shift ends soon. I’ll be next door at the pub if you want to stop by for a drink.”
She disappeared. I remained at the bar for another half hour, enjoying the anonymity of the new dancers who had just taken the stage. After a couple of Miller Lites and not one single dollar spent on a dancer, I told my buddies I was heading over to the pub to meet one of the strippers for a nightcap. I didn’t want them coming with me because I knew at that late hour the pub would not have enough female patrons to occupy my friends. They would be reduced to hovering around me and my stripper.
At the pub, she was sitting alone against the bar, sipping (chugging really) a draft beer. I sat next to her. The music was loud, and made louder by the emptiness of the bar. I counted six people, including us and the doorman. She wasn’t smiling. A blue funk had draped down her face. Perhaps she was tired. We made some small talk, but it felt like too much work. The words, the fun, the smiles, weren’t coming as effortlessly. I felt myself chasing her response, initiating every new topic to draw her into our little bubble of love.
The doorman whisked by us and she talked with him for a few seconds. He left, and she turned to me. “I’m going to go now.” She eked out a wan smile, abruptly twisted her hips, and marched out the door. I never saw her again.