During a recent business trip, I found myself shoe-horned into the back of a taxi with colleagues in various stages of inebriation, hurtling through chancy neighborhoods of Baltimore. I was on my Blackberry with my wife, going through the litany of “kids/mail/bills/when are you coming home/this single mother crap is getting old” when the cabbie abruptly stopped at our destination.
“Gotta go, hon,” I said. “We just pulled up to the strip club.” My colleagues turned their heads my way, mouths open.“You told her you were going here tonight?” one colleague asked.
“My wife would throw my junk on the lawn faster than you could say divorce lawyer,” slurred the client we’d been wining and dining earlier that evening.
The panicked look on my co-workers’ faces said it all: most men are terrified to admit to what really transpires on the road—and what inspires them in the bedroom when they come home.
Let’s be clear: if your man plies his trade taking client abuse or has ever attended a conference that finds him in a hotel banquet hall for 12 hours of Powerpoint torture, you can assume your honey has blown off steam, at least once, by contributing to some gal’s plastic surgery fund, one crumpled bill at a time.
I am the garden-variety business-traveling strip club patron, for whom a lap dance with a client is like a harmless game of golf. You tuck a dollar bill or five or 20 inside a G-string, sit back for an innocent bump n’ grind, have a few laughs with associates over the thundering drums of a Motley Crue song, wonder where your money went as you comb the sticky carpet looking for stray bills around your seat, and leave the joint lighter of both heart and wallet.
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