Mine has long blonde hair. Beauty evades her only because of the hardened authoritarian look in her eye; a cold anger that smart strippers have.
I never know what to say to them. Some guys talk to them like they're just another girl at the bar. I'm never quite sure how they do this.
- Yes, yes, I'm here from Belarus.
- Oh really? For school? A semester away? Parents sent you to experience a new foreign country through your young eyes before you settle into your corporate life?
- No, silly! I'm here to rub my tits in nameless American faces and give handjobs in the backroom.
- Ho, ho! Of course! What was I thinking? Apologies dear.
-But of course.
It's ridiculous really.
A blonde stripper with a huge beak and straight hair decides my thighs look like a great home for her ass. I'm not going to argue, but I always feel a bit bad when the ugly ones come by. I'll hit on an ugly girl at a bar for drunkeness and wingman-isms, but I will not PAY an ugly girl to dance for me. It goes against everything America stands for. She eventually asks me if I want a dance, and I shoot her down. They always get so damn angry when you do this.
After ten minutes, another one sidles up close to me. This is my hard-eyed girl with a body that I can't take my eyes off of. She turns her head to me, says something.
Who knows what she said. How do I reply?
"So... uh... where you... from... honey?" I ask.
I always throw "honey" in there because I'm drunk and thinking I'm smooth and it sounds good. (That's right. I'm smooth.)
She says something, mentions the Ukraine or Belarus. Immediately I think of that Russian war , and I wonder how far the countries are apart. Does she have family near there?
"Ah...they got a war goin on-" and I cut myself off.
"Vhat?" she asks.
"Nothing. Forget it. Give me a lap dance."
"You vant lap dance?"
"Yea. Let's go," I say, getting off the bar stool. 20 bucks left in my pocket on a Saturday night to blow, and it may as well be on her.
"You vant go in bak room? It's 120 vor an houver and-"
I can only roll my eyes. "No. That's not what I asked for. Let's go."
Even when you're actually paying women for their company (or their breasts), they still try to dog you out of more money.
She gives me a phenomenal lap dance, pushing her breasts in my face, then going straight down between my legs. She looks up and into my eyes, like the girls who give the best blowjobs do.
- You know, I used to feel sorry for strippers. For ones like you. I used to think you had nothing to do with what happens in these places.
- No you didn't. You said that to yourself because you were a stupid white kid from the suburbs who never felt comfortable in these places. Now you feel comfortable, so now you hate us, just like the rest of them.
-That isn't true. I felt bad. I hated coming here. I hated these places. I still do.
- Yes. But you come. And you demand lap dances. And you don't care. Because you have learned that we are vultures. We will come and take your money, and if you're one of the unfortunate souls who women disdain, we will rob you blind and leave you naked and duct taped in the gutter. You have learned to take from us, because we will take from you. The only difference is that you still think about it.
Her knee rubs against me, breasts back in my face before she goes back down and looks up again.
- It's a cruel world.
- You have no idea.
She finishes seconds after the song dies, and I stumble back to the barstool. It will be another half hour before my friend gets out of the backroom with red eyes and lighter pockets.
"She gave me her number," he says.