A reader of Exotic recently wrote to me, asking, "Hi, Christian, what are your favorite things about strip clubs?" So, here it is, a list of my favorite things, ascertaining towards strip clubs.
Let’s face it—men’s restrooms in strip clubs really are the best. So many nice conversations to have! I like it in there, for sure. If it ever gets crowded, I like to pick a corner and camp out for a while. And, it’s so nice to take a break from all the loud music and exotic dancing, to sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor, listening to the anecdotes and indispensable wisdom of older men.
If you ever need someone to talk to—or, just wanna let it all hang out with some good dudes—go to the Men’s Stag Meeting (open discussion) in the bathroom at your favorite club on Thursdays. We talk about personal boundaries, self-care, addiction and why it’s important to share our stories of healing.
It’s like a fancy locker room. Or, the gym clothes you got from Hot Topic’s "lost and found" box. Or, Dwayne Johnson applying Lady Stetson, post-workout—there is no exact name for this scent, which I find disturbing.
Don’t forget to check the parts of the stage with duct tape on them, as they are the gestation zones for our precious scent. This is good to know, for when you have a cold.
So brief, but so refreshing. If you’ve ever been to a strip club, then you must have encountered the proud eagle of masculinity that is the bouncer—his benevolent strength, shielding the little hatchlings inside from evil.
Just one earnest glance from the inscrutable bouncer is all it takes to send Kundalini fire throughout your loins. Ancestral patriarchs smile upon your DNA, raising your T-levels, while also generating a tingling sensation— signaling the creation of new sperms. I base all my self-worth on how much regard and time of day the bouncer gives me.
But, their glory doesn’t come easy. Each bouncer receives dangerous and uncommon training at Bouncer School. Their very smell is like the father you never had. They have a zero tolerance policy for "messin’ around." And, if you ever cross one of these big dogs, you’ll know for yourself.
Women love it when I talk about big ideas. So, whenever I am offered a lap dance, I start planning the brilliant things that I am going to say, while she’s sitting on me.
Talking constantly, I meander through a variety of subjects—ranging from John Bradshaw’s views on toxic shame in family systems, to an Adlerian model which denies trauma (in the Teleological sense), followed by my uncanny dissertation on contemporary identity narratives interpreted through the lens of Lacanian psychoanalysis.
If the dancer is wearing glasses, then I will impress her sophisticated tastes with my grasp of gendered power dynamics, the intersectionality of class and other shit like that.
Now and then, I will ask them a question about their childhood or something, in order to pretend that I care about their point of view, then immediately take whatever they said with a, "That’s exactly my point..." and go back into whatever brilliant topic I was discussing previously. And, if the dancer approaches me to weep with gratitude, "Thank you for fixing my childhood," then I know I’ve done something good in this world.
Women love it when you lie to them. They like men who are dark, who like hiding in the shadows and who go to strip clubs to tell lies and plan crimes. I’m one of those guys, for sure. A guy once asked what I did for a living and I said, "I’m a listing agent for a real estate broker" like it was nothin’. I’m actually the courier! Another successful lie, off without a hitch.
The best part about lying is the rush of power you get. I lie about what I eat, all the time. When people ask what I had for lunch, I say I had fruit and grains, when really I had Subway again. I love Subway—I go there every day...lie! It’s Quizno’s sometimes, too, if their weekly sub deal is one that I like. Eating at Quizno’s is extra nice, because the only other people there are always other men in their mid-30s. I don’t lie at restaurants though, only strip clubs.
If I were a post-apocalyptic warlord, my name would be Mammon or Asmodeus. Pliant slaves would gently clean my bonch, as my steel gray eyes scanned the supplicant bodies of my flock, for the next host to my dominant load.
After finishing the breast milk served in my enemy’s skull, I would stand up and laugh heartily before taking a healthy shit on the floor.
This is what I like to fantasize about when I am at a strip club. Every time.
Did you ever see that porn from the ‘90s called The Load Warrior? Its a porn parody of The Road Warrior. The premise is that, in the post-apocalyptic wasteland, all men have sterile seed, except for The Load Warrior, who vividly sleeps with several women, often with such fervor that he forgets to ejaculate his precious semen into their vital sex organs. Kind of ironic, if you think about it. But, that’s Hollywood for ya!
Shaking hands with the cook.
Smoking unfinished cigarettes on the patio.
Naked women.
And, that’s it! That’s the end of the bit. Now, go away.
