Getting it off

Ask a bloke how many pairs of boobs he has seen in his life and he’ll probably say, “Not enough”.

Ask a woman how many dicks she has seen in her life and she’ll probably say hundreds because she works in an office full of them.

And speaking of anatomy, I’ve never quite got my head around the male pre-occupation with watching strippers. Bored businessmen who are nodding into their schooners, or uni boys celebrating an 18th by guzzling double rums and uttering phrases of sophistication such as, “get ya tits out”.

All class.

I’ve seen it for myself a few times. As woman oft do. Could be due to curiosity, could be due to playing out your bloke’s fantasy. Or in my case, a long birthday dinner, followed by a spot of karaoke, followed by “oh my God, there’s a strip club next door, let’s go”.

Which means it could be something to do with the four glasses of champagne I’d drunk. Or was it five? Hic hic.

I give full points to these girls. They may be naked but they’re wearing full-body armour. They may look like they love what they’re doing, but mentally they’re calculating how much longer they need to strip before the house is paid off.

They may appear nonchalant and sexy, but they’re thinking “oh bugger, that idiot is back here again, the one with the sex appeal of a bin liner. Where’s my security guy?”

In addition to being forced to interact with goofy dipshits, they must perform complicated dance moves with their legs permanently spread 90 degrees apart. Try doing that in your next Combat class.

These gals are smarter than smart. I’ve worked out it takes them about three songs to totally get their kit off, yet they don’t actually lose their drawers until the last 30 seconds or so.

They walk around looking gorgeous and slutty, bob up and down the pole a few times, slide off the feather boa or see-through skirt. This can take at least two songs. Maybe the bikini top is next, with the requisite boob shake aimed at the guy with the oily forehead who is sitting at the front.

Meaning the tossers sitting in the audience are on the edge of their collective seats, gasping in hope for a glimpse of the mighty vajootz. I doubt one of them would be able to lead a group in silent prayer. Sorry fellas, you’re only getting the merest peek before it’s pants up and off stage.

What these guys need to know is that as soon as the lady runs off stage, she’s making herself a coffee and calling the babysitter to check on her kids.

Years ago, I met a bloke who said he loved seeing strippers because they made him feel like he was a king. He couldn’t quite understand that he was paying her for that feeling, and in a domestic situation, she’d be telling him he’s a tosser and to take the garbage out.

Hey mate, you want to be worshipped? Go to India and moo.

Rule #1 buying a stripper a drink will not get you laid. Rule #2 looking a stripper in the eyes when she gives you a lap dance will not make her love you.

I think we need a new relationship book, called “Women are from Venus, men are just wrong”.

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Comments

  1. Can I help you write: “Women are from Venus, men are just wrong”…

    I might just be able to offset some of the things you'd be tempted to include with some blokey objectivity.

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