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The Inner Monologue Of A Guy Who Regrets Going To The Strip Club

The Inner Monologue Of A Guy Who Regrets Going To The Strip Club

I didn’t even want to go in the first place, but I shampoo’d in so many whiskey-sodas at dinner that it seemed like an okay idea. These places are normally reserved for bachelor parties and birthdays, not happy hour afterthoughts driven by everyone’s girlfriends being out of town. When Tripp pitched the idea and I looked over to Jonathan giving me a “not opposed” face, I got caught up in the peer pressure of it all and it felt like the right move.

Now I sit here with my shirt covered in their self-tanner, smelling like what I’d imagine a Walmart-bought Kardashian perfume smells like. I’m having fever dreams about girls whose skin feels like the outer material of restaurant check booklets. Who even are you anymore? You’re scared to kiss your aunt on the cheek but you’re willing to smack tail in the velvet-covered corner booth in an establishment that’s kitty-corner to a strip mall? Figure it out.

I never wanted to be the guy in an Uber getting lectured by his 43-year-old driver about how he shouldn’t have gone to the strip club. I don’t want emails asking me if my credit card had been stolen because there were four $100+ transactions on it between the hours of 10 p.m. and 1 a.m. the night before.

It doesn’t feel good waking up to phone calls from your girlfriend while you can see your boxers next to your bed covered in pre-c and glitter. Even more so, the inner-struggle over whether to tell her what I did or not is just a rainy cloud over my head. How do you explain to someone that you can’t go to San Diego for a long, romantic weekend with them because you can’t afford the $400 plane ticket, only to go drop $689 on a casual Saturday on lap dances from Colombian and Asian girls that you can barely understand? Like, you literally said “adios” to her after handing her two twenties as she put her Frederick’s Of Hollywood bra back on.

Come on. What are you doing to yourself, man? You’re not the kind of guy that shoves dollar bills into thongs while Limp Bizkit’s “Nookie” blasts so loud that you can’t hear your conscience. Despite numerous strippers guessing that you’re 38, you’re just a 28-year-old dude with a marginal income and an American Express card. Don’t do this to yourself.

Life’s about more than $13 vodka-sodas and bouncers asking you to put your cell phone away. Life is the moments that take your breath away, not wondering if you have scabies because an exotic dancer buried your face in her ass. Paying for lap dances at $20 a pop to get your d wet isn’t a noble cause. When your girlfriend said, “Have fun tonight, honey. Be safe!”, she wasn’t tacitly saying, “Get a mid-range boner while a girl named Pocahontas tells you about how she likes when guys toss a digit between her cheeks.” This isn’t a Girls Gone Wild video — it’s your life.

That being said, are there any good strip clubs in Miami? I’m going to a bachelor party there next month.

Image via YouTube

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