A brief lapdance history, by Humanity F. Critic

The past few weeks I have been guilty of cashing a few checks that my plump derriere can't cash. When the Lakers were up 3-1, I proclaimed that the predominately anti-Kobe patrons at my local watering hole were all poster children for abortions and that all of their mothers could have saved the world trouble if they were simply digested. Imagine my embarrassment as Kobe Bryant, a guy who I defend to the point that many of you have openly questioned my sexuality, disappeared in the fourth quarter of game seven, prompting me to tell a patron who was giving me shit that I would, and I quote, "beat his ass in front of his girlfriend" if he said another word. When I was talking to the only ex-girlfriend that I thought I gave fantastic sex to on the phone last week, and began waxing poetic about what I thought were our great sexual experiences, she pulled out a diary the she had at the time and read me passages that definitely made my penis shrink minute by minute. It went like this: "Lets see, June 1st, it says here that you clumsily humped on top of me, climaxed, then said 'Only you get that good dick girl!" June 5th, you came home drunk, and during sex proceeded to eat a sandwich and watch television while I was servicing you. OK, June 7th, when I complained about not climaxing you said, "I got mine, let your fingers do the walking. I'm tired!"

Right when I thought the embarrassment had stopped momentarily, I made a fool of myself again when my boy Vince talked about a lap-dance experience he had recently. He was telling me about a certain stripper liking him and the hesitation he felt about taking the next step. Me, opening my big mouth in a moment of sheer testosterone, questioned his manhood, and gave vivid descriptions of what I would have done to the lap dancer for hire if I was in his position. Problem with that is that Vince has known me my whole life, so to say that he called me out is a huge fucking understatement. Here are a few of my quirks when it comes to my hsitory with the ancient art of the lap-dance, eloquently brought to my attention by Vince.

I once had lap-dance gear: If you are a germaphobe who is addicted to strip clubs but happen to live with a girlfriend, you might want to subscribe to my twisted logic for once in your life. Because I knew that smelling like stale perfume, ass, and having glitter all over my body was a sure sign to my significant other that I had been in a strip club, I would go to my boy's house and change into another pair of clothes just to be safe.(Clark Kent had a phone booth, I had a friends garage) Later, when the strip club closed and I had just become intimate with the genitalia of women named Cadillac and Lexus, I made my way back to my boys house to wash that smell that you tend to get from strippers who have been dancing all night, I think Billy Bob Thornton's character in "Bad Santa" characterized it as a "bum's nutsack". But women are smarter than men, my then girlfriend knew exactly what I was up to. I guess the wet hair, the new soap smell that I had, and my inability to pull off a well crafted lie were dead giveaways. But then again, maybe the strippers number that didn't completely wash off on the back of my hand was the real smoking gun.

Offering stripper wet wipes: Being a germaphobic sex addict is harder than a gay porn scene where the actors proceed to do Chinese arithmetic.(not saying that I know anything about the world of gay actors, but then again I did just see Mission Impossible 3) A few years ago when my paranoia was at an all time high, I started carrying around wet wipes to wipe my hands whenever I came in contact with something that I deemed to be "germy". But soon, because I'm an asshole, I started refusing to shake people's hands without the person in question cleansing themselves off as well. As you can imagine, my wet wipes obsession began to infiltrate its way in my habit of dry-humping strange women on a nightly basis. One time I brushed a wet wipe across the backside of a stripper who didn't exactly look too clean, and when she asked me what was going on I blamed it on incidental contact involving her ass and my wet coat. That worked a few times, until I started openly asking the strippers if I could wipe them down to ease my paranoia, but I was quickly shut down and banned from that particular strip club forever. It's been damn near a decade, but when I drive past that place I still feel like a huge creep.

Isaac Hayes' "Walk on by": One luxury afforded to chubby perverts like myself and those of my ilk by one lap-dance establishment in my area was our choice of songs to be aggressively dry-humped to. Some guys would choose your standard booty shaking song, some like to get their penis teased to old school hip hop, but it was clear that my contemporaries who didn't mind getting glitter on their skin weren't the grizzled veteran that I was. Because the ladies had to dance, ok dry hump for the length of the entire song, I thought it would be in my best interest to pick the longest song imaginable. The song that I found in the jukebox was a reworked version of Isaac Hayes' "Walk on By", which was a whopping 12 minutes and two seconds long. I would laugh uncontrollably as the woman who had positioned herself on top of me for money would get a marine style work-out to the song, looking back at me saying "When is this fucking song over??!!" The dancers there got so mad that they attempted to open the jukebox just to get that CD out of there. I'm not sure if the women there hated me, but the fact that they would say "You fucking dick!!" as soon as that song came on might be a clue.

I gave an inappropriate lecture on wiping yourself properly: After leaving a strip-club one night, trying to ignore the fact the my testicles began to look like Papa Smurfs', I looked down at my jeans at what looked like a skid-mark. I suddenly felt nauseous, and felt that I had to confront the woman in question about her inability to wipe herself properly, and the end result that found itself on my jeans. In a move that I'm still embarrassed to discuss, I drunkenly went into this diatribe with a stripper named Diamond outside of her workplace: "Dammit Diamond, we have talked about my germaphobia at length, you were the only one that wasn't outraged when I wiped your butt cheeks with wet wipes for Christs Sakes!! But this stain(fighting back vomit) is disgusting, this is the type of thing to set a paranoid fuck like me off. I mean, how long have you been wiping your ass on your own, 25 years??" She calmly reminded me of her putting her face on my lap earlier, and before she could say anything else I realized that what was on my jeans wasn't what I thought, but simply make up. That night began to start a long trend of me throwing money at problems, so instead of apologizing I gave her 200 bucks, nodded, and walked away. Which is funny because my mother recently confronted me about my habit of throwing money at problems by saying, "What if you have a daughter and she says, 'Dad, I'm pregnant!" I think handing her a few hundred bucks, nodding, and walking away isn't appropriate!" I tend to agree.