Strip clubs are like life insurance: you pay, nothing happens, then you die. Or: you pay, something does happen and you die sooner. Have you noticed that insurance people don’t go to strip clubs? They are probability savants. They’re also disgusting and nobody likes them.
I’ve never been to a strip club. I’ve been to a dance club that had a side show with dance poles and some girls on them. They were all anatomically correct and soothing to the one-eyed trouser snake, and yes, some patrons were able to start a relationship with them and turn their visual art into a haptic one. We know the stories, they all end in financial prosperity and almost nirvanic peace of mind.
I’m a woman whisperer, I can’t work with lasers, smoke, hip-hop blare, and thirty other onlookers. I don’t drink much and I have never tried any illegal drug. I didn’t have to, after my CLUMSY BUMSY spent the night, my body synthesized its own stimulants and hallucinogens. Which one makes you stop eating and your hands shiver? I had that one.
If you don’t feel like talking to a free-range woman and you don’t want to wait until she’s finished with her squiggling and you don’t want to pay her straight because it feels mercenary and mechanical… there’s a fourth way.
It’s called a hostess club, a nightclub with pre-installed women who are patient, agreeable and in a good mood. All you have to do is buy them a drink that costs the same as an entry-level smartphone and you’re in. You can tell them how you couldn’t find your house keys the other day. They weren’t on the mantelpiece as usual, but on your desk, next to the lemon-scented keyboard cleaning gel. The girls will hang on every word.
But there’s a distortion at play. The hostess has to act as if she likes her guest, and if he keeps returning, she might start believing she does. If she’s unsure, the guest can take her out to dinner and pay the club for the privilege. It’s a battle of wits, which none of the participants have.
The guest becomes her guide and mentor. He tells her about his ex-wife and their children. About his grievance with napkins and tax authorities. He shows her the car, the boat, the digital single-lens reflex camera, the penis. He gets a tug, she gets a quartz watch. It’s a summer escapade, with feelings and everything.
She starts getting ideas. Or he does. They say goodbye in September and look forward to the next go-around. But come next year, there are five new girls in the club and they are younger!!! Suddenly the guest is not that friendly anymore, last season’s special connection is now an ordinary one. This business ain’t for the faint, feeling old at 23 can shake you up.
Last but not least, by taking this job the girls reveal they are permissive, the men don’t have to do the work to find out themselves. They can’t or won’t because they’re second-rate, seeking a thrill served on a silver platter, a contradiction in terms.
The club argues, yes, it’s a phony situation, but so is every first date. A pretended behavior. The man is easygoing, the woman is low maintenance. He’s over her ex, she doesn’t drink almost at all. He’s honorable, she’s modest, but agrees to casual sex if he plays his credit cards right.
It’s a commonly held opinion that only damaged and poorly educated women become strippers, hostesses, prostitutes, porn actresses and models. There are surely many of those, but later in life you unknowingly meet them as doctors, lawyers, and CEOs. Mostly as sales reps. Knowledgeable, personable, but chintzy and flirty. They can’t do anything practical, but they can say: “This necklace is limited to 300 pieces and sold only in Europe,” with a straight face.
These girls are perfectly normal, wanting an above-average income at a young age. They’re not morning persons, and they already worked in an office and chose immorality before degeneracy. They could fool around with young guys in their home city for free, which they still can and do, but opted for talking to pudgy senior citizens in a seaside resort and sometimes going out with them after work. What jobs did you have?
I have never been to a hostess club either, I don’t drink fake sugary alcohol. I would pay the equivalent of the “champagne” bottle, but that would break down the facade, I’m sorry, nice atmosphere, and we’d be back to prostitution. So let this be a warning to you. Or an advertisement: if you’re ugly but still vain, you know… Turkish, and you don’t mind getting your foot in the door with a bribe, you’re a hostess club regular.