Why I Like To Go To Strip Clubs

Most women stay far away from strip clubs.

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The first time I went to a strip club, I was 17. My older, male best friend was visiting from college. In the excitement of our reunion, we ended up in the back room of a South Florida strip club called Charlotte’s. The stripper thought I was cute and encouraged me to touch her. Yet my guy friend was not allowed the same privilege. I’m not sure why, but that club ended up gifting me a cheap cotton tee-shirt, size XL, as though I had won an arcade game. I felt like I’d conquered the joint.

Strippers exist in an environment of fun and fantasy. They’re paid to look good and make you feel good. So, what’s wrong with that? I love strip clubs because I think the women are beautiful from head to toe. It’s a different kind of beauty — one that people who turn their noses on this industry too often discard. I see strippers as exaggerated versions of gorgeous women, who blur the lines between fantasy and reality (made blurrier, sometimes, by the booze). Most of the strippers at the Manhattan clubs I end up at have had plastic surgery, but that doesn’t usually detract from the pleasure of looking at them, since if they have, it’s only to enhance their hourglass shape. And I wouldn’t hold plastic surgery against a woman who has to take her clothes off for a living. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and aren’t we all working towards the same goal of being satisfied with our own appearances?

I don’t go to strip clubs by myself — it’s pretty much always with guy friends. They pay for everything, including my cover, cocktails, and any other lap dances or tipping that may go down. I know they bring me there because they want to watch me interact with the strippers, but I don’t care. At the nice places, at least, only women are allowed free reign with the dancers. I enjoy having that power while my guy friends don’t — and all on their dime. Girl on girl action that happens behind the scenes has never been my thing — but I’m not afraid to enhance everyone’s evening by putting on a little PG-13 show. It’s no big secret that everyone loves attention, and much like reading a book for school is different than reading one for pleasure, the strippers may not enjoy the attention as much as I do when I’m at their place of business. For me, it’s a special occasion instead of a daily responsibility, and when I’m there, they have to share the spotlight. I’ve never gone with any of my boyfriends — and wouldn’t care to. This activity is more for me to enjoy with a platonic bunch. That way there’s no jealousy coming from any angle and we can keep the interactions in a relatively safe place.

The better the club, the better the girls look, which is why I now insist on only stepping foot in the good clubs. At these, you’ll find tan girls with flat stomachs, big boobs, and tight asses. Some will go for particular looks — Latin Lovers or Persian Princesses, for example — but I like the All-American blondes. The different types are equally hot in different ways, and inspire me to stay in shape. I like watching the attention that they receive. I want to be lusted after in the same type of way.

Sometimes my guy friends will ask me to choose which girl I like. If they know that I’m having fun with the strippers, it’s a turn on for them and everyone wins. Public lap dances are one thing, but for those more intimate moments, there’s always the Champagne Room.

A girlfriend of mine, Sherry, has made out with strippers and even fooled around with them. On nights like these, the guys really get more bang for their buck, I guess. The stripper gets paid, we gals have fun, and in the end, everyone wins.

Also, it would be a lie to say I that I hadn’t entertained fantasies about stripping. While I was waiting tables as a Hooters girl in college, one of my best friends was secretly stripping — “cocktail waitressing,” she told us at the time. This was before the recession, when people were spending money like it was going out of style, but even so: she managed to send herself to Europe for six months. It seemed like easy money for minimal effort: stay out late, flirt, get drunk, and get paid TOP DOLLAR. Plus, being in that occupation would require you to stay in shape — motivation to do whatever you’d need to do to look good. I was envious — my friend had it going on, she flaunted it, and she made a gorgeously pretty penny off it. I wonder, How morally compromising could it really have been?