I haven’t been to too many strip clubs, but on almost every occasion I have, one of my mates—usually the most pissed one—actually believed the hot girl he was paying pineapples to talk to, was actually really interested in him as a person and not just as a human ATM.
Under the spell of overpriced alcohol, a soft voice and matching lingerie his girlfriend at home never wears, my mate would open up his heart and then his wallet to this seductive showgirl, tell her he doesn’t usually come to these places, and that she’s way too smart and nice to be stripping for a living… but to no avail.
Two hours and two lap-dances later, their deep and meaningful face-to-boobs chat comes to an end— my mate’s wallet is empty and his future wife is now seducing some Hong Kong hi-roller who’s just cleaned out the casino. My mate returns to the fold of his friends, deflated but not defeated. Time to leave the strip joint and find love in another place—24-hour McDonalds.