Despite what others think, I am neither boring nor a stripper

“You’re boring.”

It has been only minutes since I met the woman when she tells me this. She’s a Vietnamese stripper with long hair, braces and the smoothest skin I’ve ever felt. She’s just taken my hand and run it down the side of her nearly naked body. She must exfoliate, I think, before remembering I should be angry.

“You’re not drinking,” she complains.

I explain that I am sobering up. What I don’t tell her is the full story: The only reason I’m here tonight is I got too drunk at a college bar, made some lonely guy cry by rejecting him and couldn’t drive myself home. So I had to tag along with two male acquaintances to a strip club. Now, one of them has been tricked (he claims, anyway) into a private dance in the VIP room and the other has just unknowingly purchased me my first lap dance.

She rolls her eyes at my explanation and says I’m “no fun.” I am beginning to contemplate whether a stripper playfully insulting a customer ever results in them getting bigger tips when Tila turns around. Suddenly my face is between her breasts.

Boring, eh? Hardly.

A week has passed, and I find myself at another strip club. This time I can’t completely blame booze, though I am definitely feeling that shot of whiskey, the Irish car bomb and those beers from our earlier bar stops. I was offered a safe way home hours earlier, but the idea of attending a strip club was more appealing than sitting alone in my room, drunk and ready to dial.

The club is packed and the only table we find has only three chairs. There are four of us, and as the only female, I am forced to share. This is how I wind up sitting on an acquaintance’s lap drinking the most expensive Bud Light I’ve ever had and joking around about the absurdity of adult establishments.

Suddenly, someone slaps my ass.

She’s a blonde stripper, and she’s sitting on the lap of my friend in the next chair. “I thought you were a stripper!” she exclaims. “Oh, you’re cute!” Tila would be proud, I think, even if the idea that I’m a stripper is a little absurd. I’m wearing 10 times more fabric than any other female here.

“Thank you,” I reply, willing to take her words as a compliment. Turning back to my acquaintance, I tell him he owes me $20.

“You’re not naked,” he replies.

He has a point.

“I got mistaken for a stripper,” I jokingly tell my roommate, “and the week before a different stripper called me boring. Go figure.” I tell her the full details of my recent strip-clubs adventures, and she reciprocates with one of her own.

A few weeks ago, she had to visit a strip club for a story she was working on. She left her car at valet parking and went inside. Minutes later, a valet attendant came up to her in search of help parking the car. Apparently, the valets didn’t know how to work her Toyota Prius.

I guess the only green that matters in a strip club is the color of money.


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