name? Cinnamon? Going out with her for lunch on Saturday, eh? Very Nice.
rights for the rest of your life. This article is based on information
this venture. What do you want from the Stripper? A few fun evenings out on
terms and if you let her manipulate you and lead the show, you're sunk. She
odds with you. She's thinking she just might meet someone who can handle
her, but no one can. Trust me. No one can handle her. You'll never change
her or pull her out of Stripperville. Remember that and keep your eyes on
1. You're not Special.
You're one of 18 guys she's juggling right now, and one of a hundred who
witness her naked glory every night. It's her job to make guys feel like
they're the only one she's interested in. She gets paid handsomely for that
skill. That sultry stare she's giving you across the dinner table with those
piercing green eyes is the same look that forces 75 men-a-night to fumble
for their wallets and jam fistfuls of green into her G-string even though
they're six months behind on child support.
2. She makes more money than you. Get used to it.
Keep in mind that she pulls down more than most corporate attorneys (who
also represent a large portion of her clientele). She's ripping 2-5K a week
tax-free, and you shouldn't expect her to pay for anything. It's not in her
nature. Guys fawn all over her every single night and offer her stacks of
crisp Benjamins in an effort to get their knobs slobbered on in the parking
lot behind the club (something she'll claim she's never done, but the other
girls at the club have (right) she's done it at least once).
3. If you get emotionally involved with this girl, you're in for a hurricane
of pain.
Your future with this chick: broken dates, shattered windows, holes punched
in doors, a slew of ex-boyfriends and husbands, a thousand "friends" calling
all the time, an encyclopedia of restraining orders she has out on said exes
and a couple customers who stalked her for six months. Her apartment is
littered with soggy G-strings and cheap 8-inch heeled shoes, along with
empty tubes of body glitter, mascara, prescription drugs, zit cream, Aqua
Net and Polaroid pictures of her and her "friends" engaged in some drinking
and dancing on St. Patrick's Day last year. The Polaroid pictures of her and
her stripper friends getting nasty for the entire bar are still circulating
around town because one of the guys she dated last month stole them out of
her nightstand when he sensed the end was near and he wasn't going to be
getting any more Cinnamon Love.
3. She has more guy friends than you had all throughout high school and
college, collectively.
Sometimes they'll just drop in when you two are hanging out and you're
thinking it might get romantic. The guy friend will ask her
right in front
of you if she wants to go to Happy Hour at the Knick Knack Paddy Whack
Lounge and she'll look at you with bright eyes and say, "Yeah, let's go to
Happy Hour with Tim here... it'll be fun!" And you, still gripping on to that
glimmer of hope for some pussy, will say yes and you'll spend the next three
hours in a simmering rage while you quaff watered-down Bud Light drafts,
because she's the most popular girl in the bar and every person with a penis
in there is looking to hop on the Stripper Wagon that is blazing through
Stripperville at a very unsafe speed.
All of those "guy friends" started out just like you, chief. They saw the
Promised Titty Land and thought they could get there, too. Once they tired
of the bullshit and drama, or she found someone else, they were relegated to
"friends." They could've bought a fucking sailboat with all the money they
blew on young Cinnamon, and now they hang on to some last vestige of hope,
thinking that she may just get drunk enough some night and let them put
their spit on the slit. You guys could all get together and swap the exact
same stories about wasted nights, full-blown disappointment, and confused,
desperate whack-off sessions when you all found out that dating a stripper
is no different than trying to debate Nietzsche with a Dalmation.
4. Her life is a flurry of activity selected at random.
This stimulates her sub-par self-esteem. At 10am she will be rocketing down
the freeway at 130mph on the back of some guy's crotch rocket. By 1pm she's
already at some different guy's house, swimming naked in the pool with him
and his Great Dane named Robo. By 5pm she's doing "X" at some other guy's
house, and from there she goes home for the five-minute shower and gets
ready for work.
5. She'll blow you off for three dates in a row.
When you keep calling, she knows she has you. That Saturday night dinner and
special room you've secured at the fucking Ritz will be vaporized after she
tells you she's going to Mexico with some of her "friends." Her whimsical
trip to Mexico will forever after be known as Cabo Wabo Orgy 2002, and
you'll likely come across some digital pix of her fellating two guys on the
beach in Cabo while you're scanning some amateur porn site on the Net.
It's a crazy affair, for sure, but just remember these do's and don'ts and
you'll be fine:
DON'T ever call her and not announce your name. Her phone rings more than
all of the lines at the New York Times combined. Don't put her in the
precarious position of trying to guess your name. "Is it Steve? Rick? Mike?
Dave? Javier? Justin? Michael? Chris? Matt? Juan? Adam? Alex? Roberto? Ed?
Brian? Eugene? Tim?" She'll make it quite clear that she has many suitors,
which excites her to no end, and puts you in a bottle of bourbon all alone
by 9pm that night. Try to sound upbeat: "Hi Cinnamon, this is Greg, I was
just walking through Tiffany's, looking at a $900 sterling-silver ashtray
and thought of you." (She smokes. They all smoke. She'd gush over an ashtray
from Tiffany's. Don't buy it, though. Make her think you would've bought it
for her, if only there was a rose engraved on it.)
DON'T ask her about her fucking tattoos unless you want to look like one of
her customers.
DON'T go see her at her job unless it's absolutely necessary. A necessity
would be getting her condo key so you can go feed her cat. If you get to
that point, FYI, you're now one of her "friends," and you can wrap up the
sexual fantasies you have of her by beating off right on her pillow after
you throw the cat some Meow Mix.
DON'T try to keep up with her. Don't skip work to spend the day with her.
She works nights and you work days. Keep your job. Her days are spent at
tanning booths, Frederick's of Hollywood and chic outdoor cafés where her
and her stripper "friends" eat poached salmon salads with dressing on the
side.
DO carry lots of hundreds in a money clip. Make sure she sees you strip off
the bills when the dinner check comes. Or better yet, whip out the Corporate
Amex and toss it on the table like you're folding a bad poker hand. Clasp
your hands behind your head and lean back into your chair after you make the
Amex toss, as if to say, "See that? Unlimited credit, baby."
DO kiss her on the cheek when she shows up at your place for the nice dinner
you're going to cook her, and knock her fishnets off with your ability to
handle the cuisine and wine. At some early point in the evening though,
you're going to have to find her cell phone in her purse and steal the
battery out of it, because that thing will ring incessantly and she will
eventually find something or someone better to do. Pull the battery or she's
going to get some call at midnight, when you've got the Miles Davis playing
lightly in the background, and the candles illuminating the room in a soft
glow and you think you're about to "storm the beach." This call will
undoubtedly be from one of her "friends" who is going to an after-hours
party at some country bar and all of the sudden she'll squeal with delight
and jot down the address on her hand and say to you, "Let's go Two-Stepping
at the Country Bunker with John and Kevin!"
DO remember this: strippers are more fucked up than The Who was during their
1973 U.K. "Quadrophenia" Tour. They're a bad lot to hang out with, because
there's so much freedom and money in Stripperville. They've got it all and
they don't need you or anyone else. All they need is their Xanax and
Raspberry Stoli on the rocks and their job. Yeah, the job. That's what
fuels the lifestyle and you're never going to pry her from it. Don't even
suggest it.
If your goal from the aforementioned list is "sex," you need to understand
that it's going to take at least five dates. At least. Figure $250 per date.
Compound that and it's a nice little used Hobie Cat or a decent house
payment. While that fine body, devoid of tan lines, might fuel you to the
fifth date, I'd recommend looking into escort services in your area. With an
escort, you're getting what you want right off the bat, and it'll likely
cost you half of what Cinnamon is charging.
Good luck in Stripperville. It'll be a short stay, but something you'll talk
about for years to come.
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