I’ve been to strip clubs some four times in my life. Once shortly after turning 21 I ran into an old high school bud who suggested we visit a place he frequented by Sea-Tac Airport in Seattle. The Sea-Tac strip is famous for hookers and drugs and the club was really crusty. One of the skanky dancers talked with me until she determined that I was more interested in my beer than a private dance.

I was pretty grossed out. I pictured what it would be like to get my face near her vagina and imagined a sensation similar to when you take the first sip from a freshly-poured Sprite. You know how the bubbles tickle your face and nose as you near the cup? I was sure her vagina would be similarly teeming with jumping things and I spent the rest of the visit playing video games and pinball and wanting to wash my imagination with Purell.

Years later my baby-momma and I found ourselves in a seedy strip joint in Old Town Vegas, chugging our 2-drink minimums (at about $9 per drink) and wondering why we were there in the first place. A dancer who resembled Paula Poundstone as a zombie slid into the booth next to me.

Being the smooth, cool, conversationalist I am I asked, “So…uh… do you work here?”

*No, ugdork, she’s a customer who just happened to walk in wearing a bikini and high heels sporting glitter on her face*

I didn’t buy a dance from her but Baby-Mama bought me a lap dance from a smokin’ hot blond named Sage or Parsley or Mrs. Dash or something. She had perfect B-cup boobies that pointed up to the heavens as if asking the angels if they needed to borrow some pretty. Her smooth, pale body, airbrushed by the glow of the neons made her look like a rainbow. The sheen of her fine blond hair framed a perfect face.

After the dance she collected her $35 and sat and chatted. She was actually witty and intelligent. Overall it was a good experience.

A few years later I visited a strip club in Portland, Oregon. I will write of that experience in a later blog.

I’m not a fan of the strip clubs. It’s like going to a world-renowned restaurant and being allowed only to SMELL the food. I’d rather eat a Big Mac (internet fatties) than smell a tenderloin. (hot naked chick)

I wonder what a Big Mac would taste like with a little sprinkle of Mrs. Dash…..?