I know a woman who stripped her way through college. Shes now a corporate headhunter, pulling down a six figure annual salary, shes married, and shes got a kid. Her story, as they say, ends happily ever after.
Sadly, she’s the only stripper I’ve ever “known” (and not in the Biblical sense, either). Sure, Ive ENCOUNTERED many an exotic dancer back in the day, but I can’t say I’ve ever really known them any better than, say, the guy who delivers my pizza. And that’s not its because I believe I’m too good to get friendly with a stripper; quite the contrary. I’ve just always imagined there are lines an exotic dancer doesn’t want crossed; some fat dork from Jersey asking “You wanna grab lunch some time?” might be just the sorta line-crossing I’d imagine they’re uncomfortable with.
However, I haven’t frequented a strip club since “Strutters” in Long Branch, circa ‘89/’90, with Big Bry. “Strutters” was a juice bar, which meant the performers (oh, who am I kidding? the chicks who get their kit off) would get labia-dangling naked, because there was no booze on the premises. What a wild, wonderful world it was to discover…