Dating a Stripper

I realize that a direct result of not going on any dates in awhile is that I have no embarrassing, awkward, and/or borderline horrifying stories to entertain you with. It looks like I may be going out on a few dates soon, but until then I thought I'd entertain you with a dating story from my not-too-distant past.

Awhile ago, and I still can’t believe I’m saying this, I went on two dates with a stripper. The male variety.

As I enjoy taking classes in a variety of subjects, it was no surprise to anyone when I took a class in the art of stripping for your partner (no matter that I had no partner). What was a surprise was I emailed the teacher afterward and asked him out.

For our first date I dressed like a whore. Now let me explain – I did NOT do this for him. He had already expressed that he thought I was hot, and was fairly established as a sure thing. I dressed like a whore because I was going on a date with a HOT HOT STRIPPER, and honest to god my biggest fear was that people were going to look at him, look at me, and think, “What, he couldn’t do any better?” Or, worse, “I bet she has a great personality.”

After chatting for well over an hour while we had a couple of drinks (that he paid for with crushed dollar bills. Nice.), I was struck with the brilliant idea of playing pool. Instead of being stuck on bar stools where neither one of us could really make a move, walking around a pool table would afford us a multitude of opportunities for something like, say, him running his hand across my back. Success!

Unfortunately, we played the worst game of pool that two able-bodied adults have ever played. It took 45 minutes of us missing and missing and missing some more, and by the time I finally sunk that damn eight ball I felt victorious, not for winning, but for the fact that the only thing that now stood between us and sex was the walk back to my apartment. Which is a much better form of winning.

Now for all of you guys who feel inadequate in comparison with muscled men, please read the next two sentences in their entirety. Having sex with a completely ripped, waxed man was hot. Once.

By our second date I had pretty much seen his repertoire, and without great conversation or any other kind of connection, the romance died a quick death.

But it was all worth it, if for this story alone: he needed to drop off something of mine, but was headed out of town for a gig and had to drop it off outside my abode when I wasn’t going to be there. While on the phone with him he paced around his place saying, “I need to put this in some sort of box so that people won’t mess with it, like it’s just some piece of mail for – OH! Of course! I have some UPS boxes that I bought to go with my UPS stripper costume!”

Of course you did.