Maybe it’s just me – and it probably is, according to my fellow gay male friends – but I prefer a greasy-poled female strip club to a beefcake revue any day. Here are eight reasons why.
- Rogue dicks don’t come flying at my face
Let me get this straight first: I’m not a super-fan of strip clubs. It’s not like I’m there every chance I get. In fact, I’ve only been to a handful in my day, but in hindsight I’ve had more fun at a traditional gentlemen’s club than a gay joint. Sure, the naughty atmosphere is exciting, but I don’t get off on stuffing exotic dancers’ tube socks full of my hard-earned singles, so I generally drink and socialize without much regard for what’s happening on stage, no matter whose junk is out. My lack of undivided attention doesn’t always go over well with the “entertainment,” like the “firefighter” who smacked me on the head with his “hose” during his “performance” because my back was turned to him. Guess the “six foot rule” didn’t apply there.
My friend Brooke relates another tale of cockiness gone awry: “I knew someone who was at a male strip club and something flew off (the stripper’s) dick into her eye. She had to go to the hospital; turns out it was pubic lice,” she recalls. “I’m not gay, but I’ll take a pair of titties over crabs helicoptering off a dick any day.”
I’m strangely fascinated by females’ breasts’ buoyancy. My buddies’ girlfriends usually let me take theirs for a test drive – much to my buddies’ dismay (especially Kevin) – but I have to limit those occasions, lest I be branded the homo who’s always touching somebody’s tits at the party. The ladies at the club, however – well, they let me satisfy this odd craving for an affordable five dollars. Fair price.
- I enjoy giving my unsolicited financial advice to single mothers
When I’m not delivering sage advice and anecdotes via this celebrated column, I’m writing about money matters as a fairly successful personal finance expert. Day in and day out I practice savvy spending and saving tactics, which I teach in earnest to those in need (or really anybody who’ll listen), and the strip club is like Sunday service for my financial sermon.
- Female dancers don’t pressure me into buying drinks or lap dances
If the meth heads at the male strip club aren’t hustling behind-the-curtain action, they’re trying to shake you down for a drink or prescription meds – in my experience, at least. But as soon as you tell the strippers at the vagina store that you’re gay, they cozy up for a cocktail and conversation with zero expectations, a.k.a. the perfect date.
- Gay-for-pay dancers turn me off
It’s not like I want to go home with a male stripper, but if I wanted to go home with a male stripper I’d like to know that for $100 an hour he enjoys sucking my beautiful c-ck. Anything else is just a waste of my time and money.
- A bar full of horny straight guys is a challenge I willingly accept
I perfected the art of bedding “straight” dudes during my time in a fraternity, which makes a room full of drunken bros with boners and broken egos motherfucking amateur hour.
- I like to root for the underdogs
All eyes are on the skinny bitches grinding the stage, but I prefer the big girls with ass and confidence to spare. I once watched this portly chick with gladiator sandals tied around her calves like twine on a holiday ham slink around the pole with the ease of a giant elf sliding down a chimney on Christmas Eve. She got extra drizzle.
- Nudie man bars are increasingly hard to find
Even if I wanted to go to male strip clubs more often, I couldn’t. Full-nudity male clubs are increasingly harder to find – thanks to America’s nouveau Puritans – with most states outlawing them altogether. I prefer a little mystery anyway. What’s underneath the banana hammock? My imagination usually serves me better than reality.