I'm a Single Heterosexual Man with a Sex Drive

Why do I go to strip clubs? To be honest, and at the risk of coming off as pretentious, it’s a bit complicated.

I suppose the first and most straightforward honest answer to that is that I’m a single heterosexual man with a sex drive, I consequently enjoy seeing women naked, and strip clubs offer me a chance to do so. Ergo, I go to strip clubs to fulfill these urges. There are, of course, other ways to do this, some perhaps cheaper, or more satisfying, or perhaps more morally, socially and ethically justifiable. But I find strip clubs have an appeal that some of these lack.

A more complex answer is that I go to strip clubs to at least partly fill the void that is my completely non-existent sex life. The obvious question here is, of course, ‘why not get a girlfriend’? Unfortunately, in my case at least, that’s easier said than done. To be honest, I have self-esteem issues, and I’m rather shy and uncomfortable in social settings. While some of my closest ever friends have been women, I’m not very confident or assertive in bridging the friendship-romantic partner divide; I was actually in love with one of these women but found myself unable to express my feelings to her before she moved out of my life, something which I think is still affecting my ability to establish romantic and sexual relationships.

Outside of these friendships I find approaching women romantically or sexually difficult and embarrassing, to the point where I am on the point of entering my thirties and remain a virgin. I'm not automatically opposed to one-night stands, but I'm hardly a player and women don't seem to be that in to me. Strip clubs, then, offer an environment where this isn’t really a problem -- and where women, in fact, are approaching me, although I’m not naive enough to believe that this is for any other reason than me being a potential customer (although, while I'm hardly an Adonis, I do flatter myself that I'm not completely repulsive to these ladies, and do at least try to make an effort and be presentable for them).

Despite the above, however, I honestly wouldn’t say I was incredibly or painfully lonely, at least not to the degree that some have described on the blog; in fact, I’m naturally a quite solitary person and quite comfortable being on my own for long periods. But I still have needs. Besides the obvious lack of sex, I’m not very happy being single, and the lack of a girlfriend or partner in my life is a cause of some depression (particularly when I consider those around me and the fact that I’m getting older). I want to make a connection with someone and with a stripper I am at least able to temporarily do so, even if it is artificial and ultimately meaningless.

Furthermore, while I watch pornography to satisfy these urges more often than I go to a club -- I'm a bit of a homebug and it's cheaper and less hassle to load up a site rather than go out for the evening -- I much prefer the strip club experience over pornography. Porn is unrealistic and exaggerated, it puts you at a distance, whereas in a strip club it's all happening there, right in front of you. There's a tangibility and reality to the experience that is lacking in porn. Besides which, I often feel uncomfortable, depressed and unfulfilled after watching porn, while an evening at a strip club will, conversely, often cheer me up and boost my confidence and spirits for a while afterwards.

At the other end of the scale, prostitution does not really appeal -- in my most depressive or sexually frustrated moments I’ve considered it, but I’m concerned about issues regarding consent, exploitation, disease and legality which are conversely not part of the strip club experience, or at least not to what seems like the same degree. While it’s certainly not unproblematic, stripping and even lap-dancing seems less objectionable than prostitution; there are limits there. It might not be a complete sexual experience, but least after visiting a strip club I can look myself in the mirror afterwards, which I’m not sure I could do if I engaged the services of a prostitute.

Strip clubs offer me something of a half-way point between these; it might not be 'full' sex, but it is nevertheless a sexually-charged experience I find more-or-less satisfying. While I’m happy to just watch the main performances, I will usually get a lap-dance (sometimes more than one) if it’s offered. To be honest, I love them. I find them exhilarating; not just because of the obvious ‘tits and ass’ on offer (although I can’t honestly claim to be above those visceral pleasures), but it’s the little things I tend to enjoy and take most out of the experience; the weight of a woman sitting on my lap, her breath in my ear, the scent of her perfume in my nose or, in the case of one establishment which permitted contact between the dancer and the patron (within obvious limits), the feel of her skin under my hands.

After my first few experiences, once I’d gotten over the immediate embarrassment and awkwardness I found I enjoyed the company of the ladies; even if they were just viewing me as a customer, in the few establishments I’ve visited they have, at least for the most part, been pleasant, charming and friendly about it. I also find that strip clubs provide a ‘safe’ environment to practice my flirting techniques; I’m not very good, and after saying something I often feel embarrassed and sheepish and worry that I sound like an idiot, but I at least try not to be crude and the women at least tend to respond in good humour. I’ve never got the sense that I’ve upset or offended any of them, at least. So, another reason why I go to them; I find I enjoy the company.

All this said, I’m conscious that strip clubs are problematic. While I might enjoy the experience, I’m not proud of myself for visiting them, and afterwards tend to feel a bit guilty. I don’t go to clubs often -- a handful of times a year at most. I find I've gone years without going to a club, although since my main social circles have dissipated of late I’ve found I’ve recently started going to them more often. I’ve been doing this a few years, and even now I often have to build my courage up for even weeks at a time before I can work up the nerve to go out and I still get paranoid about bumping in to someone I know or something terrible happening that reveals my secret. Sometimes, I can’t even enter the door if there happens to be other people out on the street.

There’s a few reasons behind this; I was raised Catholic, but to be honest religion hasn’t been a bit part of my life since I was a teenager, and I find many religious teachings on sexuality absurd and outdated. I’d say it was more political; I was raised to respect women, and have studied and worked in environments which stress feminist values and women’s rights. Visiting strip clubs and getting lap-dances is, in many ways, contrary to what I have been taught about this, and I can’t help but feel that I’m doing something wrong, that I’m making these women’s lives worse and contributing to the oppression of women and such by doing so. I’m also a bit awkward and uncomfortable with my sexuality, and ‘repressed’ isn’t an entirely unfair word to describe me, which doesn’t make things easier. I can’t help but feel that I’m to a degree objectifying and judging the women involved, and then feel bad for doing so.

When I do go to a club, then, I at least try to be respectful and polite; these women might make their money taking their clothes off for men, but that’s no reason to treat them like objects or possessions. If I flirt with the ladies, I try to do so in a way that’s not offensive or crude, and I tend to let them take charge, make the first move and defer to them. I’m not great with alcohol, and I don’t drink much anyway, but I tend to strictly stick to water or soft-drinks. I make sure to strictly observe the rules and limits of the establishment and those the ladies set down on top of this. I also try to control my reactions to the women themselves; I’m pretty socially awkward anyway, and I’m self-conscious of not appearing like a creep or a lech. Nevertheless, I like to think the ladies I’ve encountered have gone away from the encounter considering me a gentleman -- or as much as is possible for me to be in an environment where a half-naked woman has her breasts right in my face, at least.

I Felt Alive

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. Maybe because Valentine's day is tomorrow and I'm in that kind of a mood.

I've never been much of a ladies' man. The first kiss I ever had was from a stripper I met when I visited a club at age 19. I went with a group of guys who were all older than I, and it was more of a novelty to them. I'd never seen a naked woman before, let alone touched one.

My first visit to a strip club was like a religious experience. Everything I had ever hoped and dreamed possible was right there in front of me, on stage. The very idea that I could make eye contact with a naked woman was nothing short of astounding. I never would have attempted eye contact with a fully clothed woman out in the "real world".

It was as if the entire world was upside down inside the four walls of the club. Women were expected to make the first move, not men. Women flirted with men. Women were dominant. My loneliness and insecurity were not liabilities here. They were seen as cute, quaint, even desirable traits for a man to have. When I got my first lapdance, I felt like I was on a higher plane of existence occupied only by the two of us. The music faded out, the lights dimmed, and all I could feel was the warmth of her soft skin and tight body rubbing against me.

After that first trip, I begged any reason I could think of to talk "the guys" into going. We visited a few more times, but the rest of them quickly lost interest. To them, the teasing and titillation they received from the strippers was seen as a bad thing. To me, it was like a drug. It wasn't long after that I started going by myself.

Years came and went, and I turned into a regular. Still ever the virgin, I sought refuge within that club. The cold, hostile, rejection-filled world of dating lived outside. When I was there, I could relax, be myself, and women loved me for me. Even though I knew none of the affection was real, I was able to feel normal, even if it was only for one night, and only for a few hours. During that time, I felt alive.

And then that affection became real to me. I fell in love with a stripper named Nikki; a beautiful, petite blonde. I somehow managed to fool myself into thinking that some how, some way, her affection was real. I spent all my time and money with her when I went, and it felt like pure bliss. Eventually, I came to my senses and quit coming to the club out of shame. I realized I'd crossed a line that I once promised myself I would never cross.

Back in the real world, my love life was still non-existent. I wanted more than anything in the world to have a real emotional connection with a real woman. But I was lucky to get one date a year in the real world. I finally lost my virginity at age 25, when a friend introduced me to a girl he worked with. She used me for a few weeks and then stopped returning my calls when the novelty of having sex with a virgin wore off.

Reluctantly, I returned to the world of strip clubs - this time at a new club. Sometime in my mid-20s, I slowly started to lose any hope that I would ever know what it felt like to be in a relationship with a real woman. All my friends got married and had kids, which I wanted desperately to experience for myself. I wasn't holding out for a stripper-quality girlfriend. Not by a longshot. I just never learned how to meet women. I never learned how to get a woman to like me. Once in a great while, I would meet a woman and even have a date or two. I would get excited that maybe things were finally going to happen. But invariably, she would lose interest in me and move on. It always followed that pattern. She would think the world of me, but didn't feel "that way" about me..

I'm 35 now, and it hurts me more than anything I can put into words how lonely I am, and how utterly ashamed I am that I have never managed to so much as even have a relationship with a woman. I've never had a woman in my life that I could call "my girlfriend". Every night I go to bed and cry myself to sleep out of loneliness. This is not the life I wanted, and I would do anything to change it. Every night I dream about what it would be like to be truly accepted by a woman. I fantasize about what it would feel like for a woman to choose to be with me. Eventually I fall asleep, the tears drying on my pillow.

In 16 years, I have spent $44,500 at strip clubs. I'll probably go again soon, the next time I feel lonely.

And tomorrow is Valentine's day.

I Hate Normal

I’ve visited a strip club nearly every month for the last five years, sometimes more often, sometimes skipping a few, but that’s the average.

The first time I went was three weeks after my 21st birthday. I went by myself, to a place I drove by on my way to the shit job I had then. That’s nearly 30 years ago, but I remember being surprised that the women were cute and the customers were not all drooling perverts. Up until I hit my 40s, my visits were sporadic and always with a group of guys. We went, we looked, we tipped. Boys night out. It was always fun, but it left a kind of hangover; I’d be unbearably horny for days afterward.

In the meantime, I got married and had two children. And yes, one’s a girl, in case you’re wondering. It’s been a durable marriage, the sex was wonderful for years and isn’t bad now. In the meantime, my wife’s put on weight and isn’t as attractive to me sexually as she was. Normal.

But I hate normal.

Then for the first time in my life, I got a deadly dull gig, a full-on Dilbert middle management job for a big-ass corporation. Cube land. I think the daily sensory deprivation contributes to the strip club habit.

Beyond that, it gets complicated, with a simple core.

The simple answer is that the girls are beautiful and naked. No matter how often I go, I’m always struck by the rough magic of it all. You enter a kind of Ali Baba’s porn cave. All the women are cute, they pretend to like you, and for not that much money, they will slither their naked and lithe bodies over you. Sometimes, they’ll do more. I don’t ask for or expect extras, but if a dancer’s going to put her hand down my Levis, I’m not going to interfere.

Even though it’s only for money, it’s still amazing to go into an atmosphere where everything is reversed. You, the guy, are pursued. If you make eye contact with a stripper, chances are, she’ll come right on over. Rejection doesn’t really enter in to it. I don’t think women really understand or appreciate that. Sure, women get rejected, but unless you as a male are ready to be cut up, you won’t be in the game at all. So, it’s nice to have the tables turned.

And you can flirt. The dancers will pretend to like that, at least, and sometimes they seem to sincerely appreciate it. How many other places can you flirt now? Not the office. Not socially, not in this country, anyway, and not if you’re married. I’ve had completely innocent compliments about, oh, a nice sweater or how an exercise program is paying off be taken completely in wrong way. I swear, I’m not a skeezy old fart who’s leering away. (At least, not outside the club). Flirting’s fun. I like to flirt.

They tell you stories. Sometimes you can tell they’re practiced. Sometimes, they come as revelations to both of us. You end up talking about everything that matters -- love, God, art, music, relationships, men, women and the fucked up things they do to each other.

Some of the dancers are walking, or rather, strutting, train wrecks. And that sucks. Others are as in control of their lives as any of us are. Both types seem to have an extra bit of juice, a little crazy, a bit larger than life. I’ve met women from all over the country and the world. Teachers, nurses, “students.” One said she was the daughter of a mafiya guy in Siberia, and had enough colorful and gory stories to go along with the claim that I ended up believing her. One girl was working her way through law school to get her brother out of prison. On any given night, I can meet a Brazilian, a Frenchwoman, a Russian or an American girl who’s been to more states than I have. I’ve made . . . not friends, but acquaintances, anyway, who will invite me to a party or a birthday.

I often tip for the conversation. They’re on the clock. Sometimes, I don’t. Maybe it sounds kind of fake and horrible to pay to talk to a woman, knowing that the camaraderie is likely bought. So what? My daily life is filled with small hypocrisies, of pretending to be interested in a family member’s story or politely laughing at the boss’s joke.

Beyond that, and even taking into account the money that grinds away in the background, you make a connection. She seems impossibly beautiful, and she’s eager to sit with you, to listen to you, to spill her stories. It’s helped along by alcohol and drugs; maybe she’s rolling on E, I don’t know. But she knows I desire her and sometimes it really seems she likes me back under the transaction. Not enough for it to be real, but enough for it to offer a genuine illusion. We’ll go to the VIP, and, fuck it, it can be sexy as hell, the perfume, the glitter, that ass, those legs, those tits dancing in front of your eyes, teasing, sometimes more than a tease, and you feel swept up, caught in desire that’s as real as the faux leather you’re sitting on, and she’ll offer up something, a taste, a kiss, a breast, her pussy, maybe guide your finger to her pussy, or slip a hand or a mouth on your cock. And you forget all the bullshit that’s waiting for you beyond the doors.

Even though you know better.

I Am Someone Who Has Never Been Able to Chat up Women

I remember looking forward excitedly to Christmas as a boy.

However, when I reached about 10 years of age, I realised that, once the presents has been opened, and Christmas Dinner eaten, the rest of Christmas was a big anti-climax.

Strip Clubs sell desire. You never have sex with the women or have to deal with the dull everyday realities of a relationship once the initial romance has worn off.

A lot of people assume that having a woman dance naked just inches from you is sexually frustrating. To me, these people don't understand what's going on. It is about the sheer joy and excitement of physical attraction, time after time. Not having sex or a relationship is the point. Strip clubs freeze the world at Christmas Eve - a world of excitement without anti-climax.

Another point is that I am someone who has never been able to chat up women or ask them out.

So in the everyday world I never get to admit to someone that I find them attractive.

In the strip club, paying for lap dances enables me to acknowledge that I find someone attractive without the fear of embarrassment or ridicule.

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 Have a Fetish for Big Fake Boobs

In high school and beyond, I was extremely nerdy. I hardly had a date or a kiss until my mid-20s. At that point, I became reasonably successful with women, but some of the loneliness from those years remains with me. I am fortunate to have a wonderful fiancee, a great job, and an enviable life (I'm now in my mid-30s). But I still go to strip clubs from time to time on my own, and I have not been able to shake my compulsive porn viewing.

I have a fetish for big fake boobs. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. I don't know where it comes from. When I was a teenager and started finding porn, that's what I was drawn to. During my decade plus of enforced chastity, I disappeared farther into a fantasy life, and now it seems to be inextricably linked to my sexuality in some way. They don't have to be insanely huge - although I like that too - but fake in general is what I go for.

My fiancee is a knockout, and has a great body that I get plenty of enjoyment from, including a naturally fantastic chest on a slim figure. We have a healthy sex life. She considers herself more sexually adventurous than me, and in some ways that may be right. But of course I can't talk to her about the fake boobs thing. It's not that I would even want her to get them. And of course, that's not the type of fetish that she and I could enjoy in the privacy of our bedroom. It's an in your face kind of thing.

So, when the urge becomes uncontrollable, I go to strip clubs. I almost inevitably go for the girls who match that particular description (and there are plenty of them out there, so I know I'm not alone). At the club I go to most often (a few times a year), they are very liberal about the touching rules in the back room. So I play with them, talk to the girls about their implants, and generally indulge myself. I could care less about discussing my life or my problems. And I'm also not that interested in discussing their lives, although that depends on the girl and her personality. I'm there for one reason (well, two...haha), and the girls generally respect that. They see all kinds, and I'm definitely not the freakiest customer they'll come across.

There is a whole community online of people (mostly men, of course) who share this fetish. We share pictures and videos, and discuss porn stars' modifications the way sports fans discuss statistics. Unfortunately, this virtual experience isn't really enough, and sometimes I need the "real" thing. I have gotten better - a few years ago, when I was single, I was going to the clubs multiple nights a week - but I am doubtful if I'll ever get over it entirely. In some ways, I hope so, but in some ways, I don't. It's my little secret, I guess, and I can't really imagine myself without that side of me, sad as it sounds.

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 Like Being in the Company of the Other Guys

It’s not primarily for women that I go to stripjoints; it’s for the men. Sure, I enjoy watching naked women dance and getting a little sexual thrill. But mostly, I like being in the company of the other guys at the club—or maybe I should say, being a member of the club.

I think I’m a fairly normal, outgoing, heterosexual male. There have been times in my life, though, when I have seriously lacked for men friends. I met the woman I married early in college and started living with her in my junior year. That was wonderful in itself, but it probably didn’t do much to teach me to forge friendships with men once my years of schooling were over. I found it easier to talk to women then and never really developed a comfortable grammar of adult male friendship. I’m not a sports fan, which was probably a huge handicap in that area.

At stripjoints, though, I feel part of the company of men. Except at the extreme upper and lower ends of the business, stripjoints attract guys from all walks of life. I recall a club in Washington DC whose clientele appeared to be about one third bureaucrats, one third tradesmen and one third bikers. At my local favorite in the Midwest, I see doctors, students, mechanics, businessmen, carpenters, teachers, lawyers, auto workers, politicians, laborers, and men of just about every other occupation. Maybe this is just my experience, but I also think stripjoints tend to be more racially integrated than many ordinary bars. I feel more comfortable in this mix than I do among men of all one type.

I find it easier to talk to men in stripjoints than in other venues. If I were to go to a sports bar, I’d probably have to know something about sports to strike up a conversation. At a neighborhood bar or a biker bar, I’d have to be a member of the group to join in. But at stripjoints, the conversational gambits are dancing naked on the stage right in front of us. We can talk about beauty, we can talk about sex, we can talk about other women. There are no conversational prerequisites. And even if the music is too loud for easy conversation, I still feel a kind of camaraderie that I don’t feel in other gatherings of men.

The male behavior I see at stripjoints make me proud to be a man. The guys there seem more polite, more thoughtful, and less like macho men stereotypes than guys at other bars or gatherings. Maybe the strippers cast a spell on us all. I regularly see girls who are absolute knockouts leave the stage with only small handful of singles to show for their set; at the same time, I see strippers who are really very ordinary looking clean up a hundred dollars or more. Guys are voting with their wallets and they tend to vote not on looks but on attitude and personality. To me, this is a pleasing blow to the stereotype that all men really want is a nice big pair of tits and a scrumptious ass. Men treat women better at stripjoints than at other bars. Strange though it seems, I see guys treat the female staff at other bars far more crudely than they treat women at strip clubs.

Sometimes I go to stripjoints with my wife. While I do enjoy the extra attention that the strippers pay me when I’m accompanied by another woman and the erotic thrill of seeing my wife being aroused, I have to admit that I enjoy the envious attention of the men as well. In effect, I’m broadcasting that my wife is so sexually adventuresome that she’ll come out to strip clubs with me and even enjoy the sexual attention of the performers: I’m gonna get royally laid tonight. That’s obnoxious, I know, but it’s one of the rare times that I feel advantaged over other guys. Again, though, my focus is more on what I imagine the reactions, thoughts and behaviors of the other male customers are than on the strippers themselves.

Maybe this sounds like an I-read-Playboy-for-the-articles dodge. It’s not. I love looking at naked women and I’m unashamed of that. I am a little ashamed, though, that there have been times in my life when I have felt so disconnected from other guys that I’ve felt more connected to them at stripjoints than anywhere else.

I Respect What Those Ladies Do

I respect what those ladies do, not just keep in shape (a natural breeding drive that the strongest women don't die in child birth) but that acrobatics, the individualistic acts (there are cookie cut acts, but very rare) that show a sensual display with a sense of humor.

Not a lap guy, air at times been surprized with a lap but not why I was there. I like the view and expression and beauty, almost like a flower blooming in human form.

It's also a place where it is not a lawsuit risk to say how pretty a woman is. I am not a bottomless or tassle guy, I find all to the bar give them more respect when they go full, plus what is the fear someone might see a nipple or vag? It's a strip club, not someone crossing the street.

As a comedian I respect the creation of a personal act too.

You ever notice that? Even on TV or something the whole breast is in view, except the nipple, like I'm so daft I can't know what's under it.

Some family that did it too. Not even a hinderence to life growing up when the unsaid member(s) of the family did it. It's how I know they aren't all a bunch of coked up whores. Resent the blanket "adult entertainment" and "sex worker" labels it's not right to wrap the sensual display with a sexual sale or even a sold attention of any kind. To the behaviour modification level, better than psychiatry.

I Like to Think This Is My Revenge

Oh, boy, do I ever like to go to strip clubs. I’ve been going for years, and now that I can afford it, I think it really gives value for the money – I go to an upscale club, where the girls are beautiful, and get five dances in a row from some pretty thing for $100. Here in Mike Bloomberg’s New York, they’re not really “dances” – you sit there and the girls more or less lie on top of you, grinding and bouncing. Typically I have to tell them to slow down and lean back a little so that I can look at their beautiful faces and bodies. When else do I get to do that? (Well, when I go to prostitutes, but you closed that blog.) I love their hair and their lips and their eyes and their smiles – they do like you, for that moment, for that dance. I wish they’d wear perfume, so it would fill my senses completely, but of course they don’t, because most men can’t go home smelling of tarts! I’m old in years – 61 – even though I’m an 18-year-old at heart, and I like to think this is my revenge for all the beautiful women in the world whom I can’t approach, whom I can’t get, this idea that I can have some young beauty dance and smile at me any time I want. I like to talk to them, get them to talk dirty, ask them about what kind of sex they have, and tell them about my own kinky desires. I try to keep it sexy, I don’t want to take the edge off by asking them any questions about their “real” life – and usually this erotic dialogue it ends up with me asking them to marry me. Then the music is over and I tell them to say, “I want to but I can’t,” and then they walk away – what a perfect relationship.

I Honestly Believe Some of Them Find Me Charming

Strip clubs are different here.

Portland, Oregon has at least forty five strip clubs in the metropolitan area. It's rumored to have the highest strip club per capita than any other U.S. city. This, coupled with an already liberal culture, leads to a very relaxed strip club experience. I've yet to be charged an entrance fee. I've yet to see one that is not fully nude. The drinks and food are reasonably priced. It feels like a regular bar that has the luxurious benefit of having (usually) tattooed nude gymnasts performing onstage. It is awesome.

I frequent a handful of clubs around town. If I like the dancer's taste in music, I'll sit at the rack and fork over my cash. If she's not appealing to me, I won't watch the show. I've been told it's unpolite to stare without tipping. I've stopped buying lap dances, however, after getting married. The image of a strange nude woman grinding on me in a secluded booth makes my wife uncomfortable. Although my wife's allowed to buy as many lap dances as she wants for herself. She's even considered being a dancer before but has body-image confidence problems.

It's a legitimate occupation, stripping. These women are not desperate whores. They are providing a merciful service. An inspired pole-dance by a competent performer has turned a despondent, irritated mood into a piqued and playful mood on many many occasions. The really good ones have me completely convinced that they genuinely like me. I honestly believe some of them find me charming and interesting and attractive.

It is pure fantasy,of course and the blissful escapism is precisely what I'm paying for. A dimly-lit, dizzying microcosm peopled by impossibly vivid sexual virtuosos who entice and enthrall your basest nature in exchange for American dollars or free Long Island ice teas. Everyone is happy. No one gets hurt.

Strip clubs in the rest of the country are deafening dens of despair where over-scented men with doomed marriages and sheepishly hidden erections are relentlessly hounded by fake-tittied harpies who sniff them for money then chafe their upper thighs with a Victoria Secret catalogue. And it costs twenty five dollars to get in.

I'll Always Be Pretending

I went to stripclubs for the same reason I bought gas station cigars; like every other American 18 year old I was acutely aware of the 3 more years I had before ‘legal’ adult became Real Adult. After I turned 21 I did it for the same reason; real adult didn’t feel very real if you didn’t have a real job. It was okay, I figured, to do a cliché rite of passage, repeatedly, so long as I did it with a snide wink to match their seductive ones. Maybe going with smug pseudo irony is still the best imitation a guy can do of a non-misogynist ‘they’re not exploiting me, I’m exploiting them’ mindset. This was just before hipsters became a thing, but my biggest excuse was, and still is, that I could be the guy who goes to strip clubs who isn’t like the guys who go to strip clubs. I could tell myself this because I had first hand experience that art, love and sex were all real and could all be real at the same time.
   
Trying to be a charming, sophisticated creep (I know I’m still a creep no matter how real my feminism actually is) hasn’t been a total failure. After a very long and lonely college loiter, I met the woman of my dreams. We rented a city apartment down the street from a strip club and I only went twice in four years. More than having it ‘out of my system’ by then, more than because I was getting sex at home, I didn’t want to hurt my partner’s feelings if I failed to omit where I’d gone.
     
Now we live in a suburb up the street from one. She is very serious when she says she would have been a stripper if she’d had the body for it. I have to be honest and admit the same. Even if that honesty is mostly me trying to be interesting. I also have to admit that I will probably visit the one down the street eventually. I’ll take the excuse as soon as it presents itself to tell myself that it’s research. I actually DO want to legalize brothels and popularize burlesque houses as a way to make strip clubs less a depressing lie for everyone. Even if I never go inside another one I’ll always be pretending I’m some kind of enlightened porn-cocoon butterfly rather than just another porn fly. That truth seems less depressing than a lie, and maybe a little more erotic.

I May Not Know Anyone

The primary reason that I go to strip clubs is #7 on your list: loneliness. In the dead of night, alone at home, the loneliness sometimes becomes unbearable. There aren't many places to go in the middle of the night, and most of those choices don't necessarily ensure any kind of reasonable human interaction.

I like to think I hold up my end of the bargain; I spend money, tip well, and am clean and polite. In exchange, women talk to me and there is usually light non-sexual touching which I find very comforting. Sometimes I will calm down enough to find parts of it arousing

This can be particularly exacerbated on business trips; in a strange city where I may not know anyone or speak the language, in the blandness of a hotel room, strip clubs are places where I know I'll be chatted up.

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.