Mind Of Man: Why We Love Strippers
Before I reveal the secret reason men love strip clubs, I’d like to directly address all the “cool” and “open-minded” women out there who insist on accompanying their boyfriends and husbands to jiggle joints: stay home. I appreciate your enlightened attitude towards dude culture, and your bad girl enthusiasm, like when you whoop it up with a stripper, publicly dabbling in hetero-flexibility for your man. But really, you’re not declaring yourself a pansexual pioneer, proving how laid-back and awesome you are to your man’s salivating bro-dawgs. You’re keeping tabs on your boyfriend or husband and you know it.
So why is it that guys love strip clubs — even guys who totally xoxo their rock star girlfriends? There’s the obvious answer: to look at nekkid boobs that aren’t the boobs attached to the rock star girlfriends they totally xoxo.
A special note to ladies with stripper poles at home for exercise purposes. While I know it must be a very empowering way to express your sexuality and burn off some calories, understand it doesn’t do much for the men in your lives, no matter how much we tell you we love it. Role-playing is fun, almost mandatory, but one of the fundamental attractions of a strip club is the taboo of new boobies.
There are a lot of women who draw the line at their significant others frequenting strip clubs. It’s the source of many arguments, especially when he stumbles home late, drunk, his lap sprinkled with glitter, reeking of cheap perfume and baby powder. And why shouldn’t women feel insecure about their man seeking out and paying for the attention of other women? It’s basically cheating, right? No bodily fluids are exchanged, but the intention is there, right? If you only knew why we go, you wouldn’t flip out, or worry, or insist you tag along to chaperone.
The reasons men are drawn to strip clubs the way piranhas are drawn to toes dangling in the Amazon are twofold. But first, it’s important to understand strip clubs exist to separate men from their money. Not some of their money. All of it. Men who forget this are the best possible customers for an establishment that’s in the business of selling fantasy, alcohol, and nothing more. Got it?
Men go to strip clubs to see boobies, and in some cases, hoo-ha. They go to hear the classics, like C&C Music Factory and Crazy Town. They go to spend their money on expensive, watered down drinks and lap dances that are never really a dry hump, but just a giant, never-ending tease. Men’s faces during lap dances are portraits of pathetic, impotent want, not dissimilar to a dog’s desperate pant and furrowed brow as it waits for table scraps that never come. Mainly, the enduring appeal of strip clubs is this: It’s a place where regular men can reject beautiful women.
You got that? In a strip club, the physics of seduction are flipped. The real money for a stripper isn’t dancing for dollars; that’s a preview of the main course. The real money comes when that stripper hits the bar and tries to get them to buy lap dances. In these instances, men have the power to turn down hotties. It’s the only place where short, fat, balding guys can turn down statuesque, exotic beauties. That kind of sexual power is a profound kick, one denied men at normal watering holes, and it’s a novelty worth the money.
To the strippers, all men look the same. We look like Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Franklin. Once we’ve picked a stripper, it’s her job to get the man to believe that he’s the only man in the universe. It’s all fun and games, ideally. In the end, the man is a little poorer, but he enjoyed an alternate reality where he was Brad Pitt. The stripper is a little richer, and maybe enjoyed the ability to turn another man into a glob of Silly Putty. More often than not, the man is a lot poorer, and the stripper is a lot richer.
I’ve gone to strip clubs to be titillated, to enjoy the Big Lie, to drink and smoke and debauch. I love the fantasy of it, and happily tip the ladies with the bouncing ta-tas. On some occasions, I’ve taken the bait, and believed that Amethyst, Sparkles, or Candy Kane actually liked me, wanted me, and so I handed over twenty after twenty. In the past, when I frequented strip clubs often, I have to admit those were unhappy times in my life. I don’t seek them out so much anymore, but it’s always fun during the odd bender, while celebrating an old friend in town or a brief career victory or just “Tuesday,” to slip dollar bills into the thong of a stripper and sip a whiskey neat.