I Like Strippers

I like strippers.

There it is, right out there in the open. Let’s forget for a moment that I am married. And let’s forget that I have a daughter who ever became a stripper would force me to glue my testicals to the nearest run away train as punishment for my bad parenting. Let’s just focus on the very simple fact that strippers are just bingo in my book.

I don’t know if it’s because I don’t have anything to write about tonight or the fact that my numbers hit an iceberg. But it doesn’t really matter because I like strippers. They make every thing just gravy.

It may be because my wife and I watched a show tonight that had a stripper in it. That could be it and we had a little discussion. No high profile political discussions in the Hossman’s house, it was all about strippers. But, um, bang up job by all the candidates. What’s your stance on strippers.

But back to the point, strippers are great. I don’t know when they are more great: when you are 18 and are suckered in by the game and think that they really like you or when you are older and know that the only reason they are talking to you is because you are paying them. When you are 18 you are just so happy to be seeing a real pair of boobies and you get it in your head that hey, she really likes me, I’m cool. Then you go home alone and peel it to “Pour Some Sugar On Me.”

But when you are in your 30’s you realize that you don’t have to try at all, they are still going to flash you their tits, so kudos to you. You learn that it’s even better than when you were 18 because now you don’t have to say shit, not talking what so ever. I don’t care what your name is, we all know that you are going to lie to me and tell me its Candy. And I don’t care where you are from or what your ambitions are. If I did, I probably wouldn’t be in a strip club in the first place. When you are 30, it’s freeing. All the pressure is off and you can just sit back and enjoy the knockers. They aren’t free but you certainly understand you are paying for a service: jerk material for when the wife is too tired. I get an on demand movie in my head and she gets to save money for college. It’s win, win.

Maybe it’s because Rock of Love II is back on that I’m talking about strippers tonight. That show has nothing but strippers. But sadly, without the strobe light and smell of desperation filtered in cigarette smoke, they just don’t look that hot.

I like my strippers clouded by a fog machine and a cocaine haze gleaming over her eyes. I want it just dark enough that I see the goods but not the cancerous mole that she just got removed. We had a bachelor part for a friend one night, I can’t mention who because we promised no strippers, so we went to a strip club.

There was a stripper there with only one hand. Seriously, only one hand. After about 4 beers a buddy and I bet if we got a lap dance for the Bachelor, would he notice that she only had one hand. I said he would, my buddy said no way.

He ended up getting 2 lap dances from us then paid one for himself. We asked him if he noticed anything unusual about the stripper. He said no and thought she was great. I had to fork over another 20 bucks because of the bet at which point my buddy got his own lap dance. That’s the kind of atmosphere that I need my strippers.

You may think that Hossmom will get upset by this blog, but honestly she doesn’t care. First, she knows that I have the game of a walrus and second: I haven’t been to a strip club in 5 years. I actually took my wife with me once in Vegas with some friends. She asked me if I wanted a lap dance.

“Of course not!” I said. “That’s just throwing away money.” Bold. Face. Lie.

Hell yes that’s what I said. What are you supposed to say when you wife asks you if you want a lap dance. “Yes, that would be great right next to me not getting any for the next 100 years.” And to my relief the strip club was one of those with a “No touching” policy. My wife asked what the big deal was and I said I didn’t know, crazy guys. I’m not that creepy. But yes, yes I am that creepy. Thank god for bad strip clubs who don’t allow the “ride for 5”.

There was only one time I wasn’t to thrilled to be at a strip club, my own bachelor party. Somehow, as part of the celebration, my brother got 9 strippers together at the club. They then put me in the stocks, you know, that old west thing where you neck and hands are in a piece of wood.

Then the 9 strippers preceded to whip the shit out of my ass with a leather whip. I couldn’t even see boobs but it would appear that everyone else was having a great time. They then ripped off my underwear. I was plastered but I could still feel it. They were taking out all there daddy frustrations on me.

I climbed into bed with my soon to be wife the next day, wincing. She took one look at my butt and gasped. It would appear that the whipping had left me with some pretty severe brusing—enough so that there was an outline of my wallet on my ass.

She asked me what happened. I told her I was jumped by a bunch of college students and aspiring actresses.

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