It never fails, every time my friends and I take a journey to that special place where titty's and unfulfilled potential come aplenty, there's always one person who forgets the very first rule in that monumental piece of literature that is the strip-club handbook. That rule being, regardless how many times her smile illuminates your deviant soul like a spotlight, no matter how impressed you are with the fact that she performed the most menial of tasks and learned your name, no matter how interested she seems as you embarrassingly tell her about that time you were once somebody's bitch in one of those "club fed" minimum security prisons, do not by any means fall in love with what I like to call a pole gymnast. Strippers are as synonymous as your local "stick up kid", forcing you to deposit your hard earned cash in her soiled undergarment that at best smells like a sweaty toddler or a cucumber gone bad, with her mammary's and her oiled up body that you'll certainly use later for masturbatory material - being her particular weapon of choice. The gentleman who do choose to throw caution to the wind, forget about the fact that even if that lady somehow became a triple amputee who acquired a pretty unsavory habit of smearing her own fecal matter over her face with the good limb - she still wouldn't be in your league. You can't forget about that small piece of useful information pertaining to an old conversation where she claimed to hate everyone in your particular race but you, those who ignore tell-tale signs like that and go for the brass ring(ring around the tube more like it) are destined for nothing but blue balls and disappointment.
Every time I've ever seen one of these rule ignorers try and date a stripper it always goes one of two ways. 1. Either she strings the hapless sap along with her inviting smile and the flexing of her ass-cheeks, that the guy literally forgets that he even asked her out in the first place 2. She flatly rebukes your advances, which is honorable because at least she was honest with you, but all that good will erodes like the faces that looked at the arch of the covenant too long, after you realize that a chick who dances to Lil John records while having dollar bills thrown at her just rejected you.
But there is a chance, a slight chance, that you can indeed be like Eddie Murphy in "The Golden Child" when he fulfilled all the tasks required of him and held up that sacred Ajanti Dagger with pride.(Remember, "I-I-I-I--Got--da--kniiiife!!") You too, with a bit of skill and lady luck riding shotgun, can jump through the proverbial hoops, withstand the vomit inducing crunk music, and endure the most asinine conversations this side of Anna Nicole Smith on a methadone binge, and proudly hold up an erotic dancer's titty outside the smokey confines of a strip-club like it was the Stanley fuckingf Cup. But just let me warn you, there is a downside.
Stop it! You aren't saving for college!!: If you ever find yourself with a stripper romantically, outside of performing some lude act in the backseat of your car with your wallet being 50 bucks lighter, the one conversation you will hear from her more than the standard "someone should really sanitize that pole" rant - is how many times she tells you that classic lie that she's saving up for college. I never understood how some chicks have to rationalize what they do for people, if you like shaking that ass for loot be proud of that fact, the fact that her silly ass never got out of the 9th grade makes said rationalization laughable.
She has her own Paparazzi: For all those A-List movie stars who spend a considerable amount of their time bitching about the paparazzi 24-7, men in trees wearing Ninja outfits trying to capture the most intimate of moments, struggling photographers tailing them to their kid's soccer practice, an opportunist with a camera phone taking your world famous visage as you exit the house of a young woman who isn't your wife, none of that compares to the unwanted attention you receive when you date a stripper. Regardless where you're at, you could be in the holy confines of Sunday mass for Christs sake, there will always be some jackass who will yell out "Cadillac!!", soon after attempting to give your girlfriend a hug like he was her long lost brother and shit. As menacing as you may look, and how anorexic and pimply as the particular gentleman might look, your presence is always ignored like a Hurrican Katrina victim. Those few times where you find yourself acting like a man and halting the objectionable behavior with a well placed chop to their Adam's apple, your woman will always reprimand you with a stern "you're fucking my money up!!"
The singles get ridiculous: There has been many jokes over the years about strippers and one dollar bills, but the lunacy intensifies when you see it up close and personal. The one thing that her landlord, the waiter who serves her a few times, and the supermarket cashier have in common: They all knew what my lady did by the way she paid them exclusively in ones, each person receiving the money with the same sort of patience of pity that one would have for an old lady who breaks out her penny jar as soon as she's told how much her groceries are going to cost her. As the boyfriend of an erotic dancer it's hard not to be a prick, so I started carrying around nothing but ones myself, dying inside with laughter, trying to figure out if my lovely girlfriend figured out what I was doing as I paid off my bookie with 400 dollars worth of one dollar bills.
You become a stripper by default: Besides the fact that you can't walk down a fucking city block without your woman treating the world as her jungle gym, grabbing random light-poles and flipping herself upside down showing the world her dexterity and her Brazilian wax, you actually have bigger issues to deal with. That issue being glitter, I don't care how hygienic your lady is, she could scrub herself -using an S.O.S pad - with the same sort of aggressiveness that I did after I learned that an ex-girlfriend had once fucked Micheal Bevin's, those tiny shards of metallic fibers are embedded into your skin like a fresh tattoo. Suffice it to say, being the one guy who presses his erection on her when 30 bucks and a dry-hump isn't involved, I spent the rest of my days plucking glitter off of my skin and fielding questions from co-workers about my late-night exploits. My co-workers at the time thought that I was a male dancer, which I felt good about since that would mean that someone would be willing to see me naked, but when I realized that 90% of those dudes craved cock - I started strategically fucking my girlfriend though pieces of well placed plastic sheeting.
Never see her perform again: This is probably the most important factor, as soon as it becomes apparent that this chick will let you see her roast beef curtains outside of her workplace, take it upon yourself to stop going there as soon as humanly possible. As progressive a thinker as you'd like to think you are, as much as you try to be an asshole about it and say shit like "I'm only fucking her, she's not my girlfriend!", random guys approaching her in attempts to take away your early morning blow-jobs and cheese-egg privileges in your presence will start getting to you. The first few visits you are cooler than a fan, laughingly shrugging it off while saying "Hey, it's her job..", but after the 5th time you find yourself fighting every guy outside like its an impromptu "Tough-Man" competition. Its not worth it, so when I hear that T-Pain song "I'm in love with a Stripper", I feel that that gremlin looking bastard is leading America's youth astray.