fA few weeks ago I went to a strip club by myself. I'd never done that. It was in the middle of the afternoon. I usually don't like going to strip clubs at all. It's always someone else's idea to go to one. I just can't shake the feeling that walking through the door qualifies me as a mark. Gentlemen's club my ass!
For once, I decided to go to get a table dance. Normally, when I'm there with a couple of friends and I don't really want to be there, I have to shoo the dancers away like the persistent pests they usually are. For once, I went there by myself to get a table dance.
I ordered a diet coke, and in the length of time that it took me to slowly drink it, not one dancer came to my table to offer me a table dance. A couple of dancers walked back and forth in front of me from one side of the club to the other. Another dancer paced back and forth a few feet from my table for a bit. Another dancer came up and said hi and said she was looking for some guy to check into her shift. A few minutes later I saw her sitting at the bar with a couple of other dancers.
I finished my diet coke and left. The two twenty dollar bills I was prepared to spend sat safely in my wallet as I walked out. What gives? For once I go in there to get the service they advertise, and nothing. That night I actually thought seriously about going in there the next afternoon I could, maybe even be willing to have the exact same thing happen again, and going in there quite a few times to prove to them I'm some kind of good guy and not someone that they have to worry about. How many times I'd have to do that I had no idea.
That's it! Exactly. There were several other men in there by themselves who, for all I knew, might have bought into the same idea and were sitting there trying to prove the same thing. There was one younger guy sitting behind me smoking an e-cigarette, and there was some old geezer whose facial expression made him look so forlorn and unloved.
Who knows how long these guys had been at it? I figured that going there repeatedly by myself at the same time of day, having a diet coke, two diet cokes maybe, would just tell these women that I was the obsessive type who'd never found whatever it was he was looking for anywhere else and had now decided to try and find it with these women. I figured that they would treat me accordingly as a result.
Maybe all that would amount to was little spoonfuls of attention with the expectation they could get tenfold back from me. Anyway, it's nice to be self-aware enough about this kind of thing that the idea of being a regular patron of a strip club under those circumstances does not appeal to me at all.
There are already so many outlets for my energies that don't directly involve the participation of women, mainly music and art, where my obsessive energy and devotion actually pay off in some way, that I just don't go to women the way I used to for the things I used to go to them for.
Furthermore, the ability to snap to women who are actually attempting to exploit this tendency in some way is more important to me than getting laid, getting a girlfriend, having women think of me as some sort of good guy, whatever.
For once, I decided to go to get a table dance. Normally, when I'm there with a couple of friends and I don't really want to be there, I have to shoo the dancers away like the persistent pests they usually are. For once, I went there by myself to get a table dance.
I ordered a diet coke, and in the length of time that it took me to slowly drink it, not one dancer came to my table to offer me a table dance. A couple of dancers walked back and forth in front of me from one side of the club to the other. Another dancer paced back and forth a few feet from my table for a bit. Another dancer came up and said hi and said she was looking for some guy to check into her shift. A few minutes later I saw her sitting at the bar with a couple of other dancers.
I finished my diet coke and left. The two twenty dollar bills I was prepared to spend sat safely in my wallet as I walked out. What gives? For once I go in there to get the service they advertise, and nothing. That night I actually thought seriously about going in there the next afternoon I could, maybe even be willing to have the exact same thing happen again, and going in there quite a few times to prove to them I'm some kind of good guy and not someone that they have to worry about. How many times I'd have to do that I had no idea.
That's it! Exactly. There were several other men in there by themselves who, for all I knew, might have bought into the same idea and were sitting there trying to prove the same thing. There was one younger guy sitting behind me smoking an e-cigarette, and there was some old geezer whose facial expression made him look so forlorn and unloved.
Who knows how long these guys had been at it? I figured that going there repeatedly by myself at the same time of day, having a diet coke, two diet cokes maybe, would just tell these women that I was the obsessive type who'd never found whatever it was he was looking for anywhere else and had now decided to try and find it with these women. I figured that they would treat me accordingly as a result.
Maybe all that would amount to was little spoonfuls of attention with the expectation they could get tenfold back from me. Anyway, it's nice to be self-aware enough about this kind of thing that the idea of being a regular patron of a strip club under those circumstances does not appeal to me at all.
There are already so many outlets for my energies that don't directly involve the participation of women, mainly music and art, where my obsessive energy and devotion actually pay off in some way, that I just don't go to women the way I used to for the things I used to go to them for.
Furthermore, the ability to snap to women who are actually attempting to exploit this tendency in some way is more important to me than getting laid, getting a girlfriend, having women think of me as some sort of good guy, whatever.
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