I'm Going to Find Refuge Where I Can

19 years in a loveless marriage with no passion, care, or concern was a deciding factor. Needless to say, going didn't solve the problem; a divorce did. Yes, there is a cost, but for $40 someone gives you a lap dance and listens to you. Granted, the ladies do it for the money. But when you provide a home, appliances, car, and what-not for a wife and get the cold shoulder night after night, plus the demand, "What are you making for supper?" when I get home from work, I'm going to find refuge where I can.

I have noticed that the church is very vocal on what people should NOT do when it comes to adultery. The church needs to be more vocal about what couples should ALSO do to promote peace and harmony and intimacy inside the marriage. As I read the letters posted, I get the feeling that guys just didn't go for the fun as much as to escape the hell their marriages had become. Yes, it takes two to make a marriage work, but I got to the point where I seemed to make all the effort and got squat in return.

Also, I never had a dancer sexually molest me as my wife did. My ex-wife attacked my genitals on a frequent basis. She inflicted pain. There was very little sex and very little intimacy. I slept on the couch the last seven years of the marriage for self-protection. I probably would have left sooner if my son wasn't in the picture.

I Am Gay

I only attend strip clubs as one of a group. One birthday party thrown by the dude's girlfriend, some bachelor parties for the soon-to-be married, and one all-male business group after business was done. In all cases, I've been explicitly invited, and while I am happy enough to go and mingle in the group, I never go by myself. I find there is too often a worrisome undercurrent that makes me feel that I am enjoying the event at the expense of others.

Most importantly, I am gay. The number of women I have been deeply attracted to is a single digit percentage of my crushes overall, so all the dancework and acrobatics performance at a club is just a skillful show where I am concerned. I can appreciate a heartfelt performance as much as any human, but that's all I am appreciating. Likewise, there is little attraction in spending the extra money for a private performance or even a public personal performance. I can appreciate the stripper's work as easily above a nearby friend as I can above myself. Moreover, in a party group, I can be giving a gift to the birthday boy or groom or business colleague all at once for the same price. Meanwhile, I can also chat up the bartender, talk to friends, enjoy the buffet, and seriously inquire with the ladies as to which drinks are actually worth the price of the drink minimum.

Usually, this is all pleasant fun. I'm not spending too terribly much, and most of what I am spending is a gift for a friend or colleague. Meanwhile, I get to people watch. No one minds if I take in the ladies, and no one notices that I take in the gents at the same time. Gay with friends at the strip club means near-perfect detachment from a sea of constant but unthreatening heterosexuality. Safe as houses.

The only problem is when I witness real vulnerability.

One of my friends declined a lapdance offer because he didn't have a girlfriend at the time and didn't want to go home with blue balls. One of the businessmen was obviously lonely more than he was admiring, as naked as the woman talking with him. One groomsman was obviously far too admiring, and his apathy toward his current relationship was suddenly and vividly apparent. One stripper was obviously very keen for private performances, clearly needing the higher payout with some sense of urgency.

All of that is uncomfortable to witness, because none of it can be commented on nor helped without becoming far too intimate far too fast. The club creates the illusion of heterosexual intimacy, a coy game of it, but it refuses to actually allow or engage the real thing. So long as everyone involved simply enjoys the game, all is well; but the moment someone needs more than the game, they absolutely cannot have it, and so they stand there, open and raw and unable to share. Most of the other dudes are too engaged to notice, but the detached strippers and the detached gay man notice.

It is profoundly uncomfortable. It is the price of a fun outing, the price of not being entranced by the ladies. I see cute straight men letting their guard down and baring themselves, and there's rarely a thing I can do about it beyond sending a stripper their way. I get to feel generous and thoughtful, but I do so fundamentally at their expense.

I Met a Dancer Last Night

Last night I made one of my twice-annual trips to the strip club. Some of your other letters have described the obvious reasons for why I go – loneliness, basic companionship, touch. I’m very lonely, 40 years old and stuck for now in school with 20 year old coeds who look impossibly hot, many of them do talk to me but they won’t go out with me, I need hair to pull that off. I met a dancer last night just the same age as my schoolmates. She’s a single mom with a two year old girl. She has her baby’s footprint from when she was born tattooed on her back beneath her name, Isabella. She’s only been dancing for 2 weeks and confesses she’s still nervous. She won’t do all nude and says “I don’t know if I’ll ever be that kind of girl.” I get a private dance with her and though I can’t touch her (others will let you) having her lissome body pressed against mine feels great. It’s the only touch I’ve had with a woman in a long time. And yes, the fact that I’m having to pay for it does come into play. It makes it feel less substantial, like I’m trying to embrace her form in front of me but keep closing my arms around empty air. It’s not backed up by the meaningfulness of intimacy with someone you love (or at least really like). Still, it starts to fill me up even as it awakens more unmet desires.

She asks me if I have kids and I say no but I wish I did and it’s then that she confesses she has a beautiful little girl at home. I can see her stretch marks, she’s such a skinny thing. “I’m a single mom,” she tells me proudly with audible currents of courage and risk. She seems to be asking “Can I make it?” and I’m touched emotionally even as she grinds a little diffidently against my crotch. This is what I came for, too. I want to talk to a girl, and it’s a thrill to do it in a sexual setting, where she’s wearing nothing but lingerie or a minidress. I only talk about regular things. Again, I know I’m paying for the conversation but the girls I always pick out are genuine if restrained in their talk about their normal lives. One girl a few years ago, we got along so well, and she did end up going out with me for a time. We had connected genuinely despite the monetary obligations of the club situation. That’s why I just talk about normal stuff. If I tried treating them like a princess or searching for sexual dialogue then the spell would be broken because I’d know they were only telling me what they thought I wanted to hear, what I was paying for. No one discusses their actual personal love lives with strange men at a strip club.

As far as the money goes, I treat my visits like a big potlatch event, the ceremonies performed by the Native Americans from the great Northwest. I save up singles and new crisp $5 bills to give out in abundance, feeling better and better the more I give to the ladies. They’re working hard, and I’m in the service industry too working for tips, so I can identify with them. I give my dance partner $50 for a $30 lapdance and it just feels good knowing she’ll use the money for her baby girl. I give the $5’s to the girls on stage. I’m not showing off in a mid-level joint where singles rule the tip register, it just feels good to do something special, and it makes the girls happy.

I only go like I say about twice a year, and it’s a special event for me. I know I’m paying for sexualized contact with a hot skinny girl. But I always feel I’ve made a brief, not deep but genuine, just normal connection with a luminous creature, soft-skinned and slender, legs velveteen and long. I come away conflicted between exacerbated desire unrequited and a sweet, thrilled, treasured, focused satisfaction and completeness. For now, when the real thing isn’t available to me, paying for contact with an attractive girl postpones the pain of loneliness as well as tickles a lustfulness activated by the sight of so many girls walking around barely clothed, long legs and tight asses, bare shoulder and curvy chests on display. It’s an intoxication I keep as a special event, not for everyday.

I'm a 24-Year-Old Drone

I've gone to strip clubs because my life lacks intimacy.

There we go. Might as well just come out with it. Nobody talks to me, nobody cares what I say. I'm a 24-year-old drone who wastes his days sitting at a computer reviewing spreadsheets that don't really matter. Oh, I'm told to believe that they matter, sure. But they don't.

I get there at 8am. I leave at 6pm, and often times I find myself sitting in the parking lot wondering just where the hell to go. My family's far away, I have no friends to speak of; nothing awaits me at my apartment except Netflix and a couple of cold beers. Despite the overall pointlessness of my life, though, I do feel the basic human need to talk to someone. Not even necessarily to vent about how much I hate where I've ended up (especially compared to my childhood dreams of being an astronaut), but just to have someone who listens. Perhaps that's why I'm writing this e-mail, even.

I know the girls at the strip club don't truly listen, don't truly care. I know why they're nice to me, and they know I know it. But they pretend. Most of them pretend to care pretty damn well. When I think about it, that's enough to satisfy that basic human need. I'm sure they're not interested in hearing about my day, or my troubles, or my general dissatisfaction with the state of things, but they'll smile at me, giggle at my not-at-all-funny jokes, and give me some artificial sense of being cared for.

I'm probably the least common denominator; I bet most men go to strip clubs to look at asses, but I don't really talk to the men that much at these clubs. That's one thing I also find interesting about the strip-club scene. It's not at all like the bar scene. At the bar, you talk to the guy next to you; if he's a good guy, you buy him a drink. If he's not, you talk to the other guy. Rinse and repeat till you find someone who deserves a drink. At the strip club, it's not like that. If you didn't come in with a friend, you're not talking to anyone except the bartender and the dancers. It's not a social engagement, it's a spectacle.

I don't even really watch the girls when they're dancing. Sure, I'll tune in when they're pulling off something magnificently acrobatic or abnormally impressive, but most of the time I'm either watching whatever sporting event is being broadcast or pretending to care about whatever impending doom is being vehemently discussed on the news. It's when the girls come around to talk to you that gets me.

They almost always begin by asking why I'm all alone, or why I look "sad". I see what they're doing here; it's all part of their pitch. It's the used car salesman telling you that you look like a busy person who couldn't help but pull into their lot because you were so enticed by their spectacular deals. They know you came for a reason. Everyone's sad. Especially men at strip clubs. The patrons know it. The strippers know it. The guy out on the highway who couldn't afford the cover charge knows it. When you're a stripper, this knowledge of the target market can yield great profits. Appeal personally to the customer's emotions and you're sure to receive great return.

After feeding them whatever lie I come up with about how my friends are busy, or at a birthday party, or otherwise indisposed (to avoid the appearance of being friendless, of course. Who wants the 80%-naked lady to think they're a loser?) they either move on to the next customer or stay a while and talk. The reason I go to places like this is for those moments when they stay and talk. That's all I wanted. They don't have to be naked. They could be wearing a suit of armor for all I care; I just want to talk to someone who cares, and $1 every 3 minutes is a lot less than $250 an hour for a therapist.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I have some awful mental aberration that needs fixing from professional help. I just want to talk to someone. I'm fully aware that these dancing girls do not give half a care about my life or my situation, but they pretend. And they pretend very, very well. It's their job to pretend. That's why they all have fake names.

Strippers provide inauthentic care and concern in an authentic enough manner to satisfy my need to talk to someone, at a reasonable price.

I Was a Teenager

My going to strip clubs had two distinct phases.

The first was when I was a teenager at an all boys boarding in England (we used to say: "Better to have a sister in a whorehouse than a brother at an English boarding school").  The motivation was curiosity, desire to find sex (for the first time) - basically general horniness.  Didn't do much to alliviate the problems, but sure spent a big part of my allowance.

As a grownup, I found myself at strip clubs in New Orleans and Las Vegas.  Went because that is where my buddies wanted to go.  Disappointing and expensive.  Found that my girlfriends were open to anything (and more) that the strippers provided, plus my girlfriends liked my jokes.  Bottom line, didn't get anything that I didn't get better at home.  Also, I like my intimacy in private.

The friends who wanted to go, were typically the ones who were not happily married, or who (as far as could be determined from conversations) had sexual needs that their partners were not willing/able to meet.

Bottom line, for me a strip club is far more interesting in concept than in reality.