Queen Air
Okay, during my globe trekking, I flew from Montego Bay, which was hot as ‘uck, to Atlanta, then Atlanta to LA, before boarding my flight to Tahiti. Now, let me say that I am pretty open minded about a lot of stuff, but this had to be the gayest flight crew I have ever seen! Lip gloss and all! I didn’t want to touch nothing! Spray this hussufussuh down with Lysol or something! “Ladiessss and gentlemen, if you find your sssseatsssss, kindly step out of the aislessssss and let the person or personsssss behind you pass to ssssspeed up the boarding process…” Yeah, he wears panties! Has to! He’s too gay!
Everything set these little drama queens off! They were Tahitians, so I expect they were gay in their own way, but these dudes were straight Miami, with a hint of angry Puerto Rico gay! Almost too pretty to beat down, even if they robbed you at knifepoint. That gay!
I’m in the shitty seat right near the toilet. It’s directly behind my head. It smelled like hot, steamy ass meat for the entire 8 hour flight. I mean, before the plane even took off, at least 6 people spent 3 to 5 minutes in there! They even came out looking all suspicious, hoping to get back to their seats before the stink fumigated the cockpit. Stankin’ asses!
Meanwhile the male stewardesses we will call “It’s raining men!” were prancing up the aisles barking out instructions, first, in French, then in gay English. All of I could think of was that sketch from In Living Color with Damon Wayans and David Allen Grier… “Two-thsnaps-up!” The chicks were surprisingly fine, though a bit full of themselves. They were banging carts up and down the aisle with no regard for who was asleep or inadvertently hung an appendage out in the aisle “Watch the cart, please! Elbows in!” Bang, smash, crash, .. “ Scuze the cart, please! Get your baby, ma’am!”
8 hours in this flying French gay bar with 300 or so irritable bowel’rs! Let’s see what’s on the TV thingy. The Incredibles. Seen it on several other flights! Reruns of Friends. Even white people stopped watching that crap! One episode of the Simpsons where, I think, Bart gets into mischief. Don’t quote me on that. 3 British comedies. Oxymoronic statement? Needless to say, read a book.
Yup! It’s raining men #2 wants my dinner request now before they dim the cabin lights, and he is standing there tapping his foot indicating urgency. Great! At first I didn’t #2 was gay, just tipsy, or maybe just gay on one side. You know how some people are ugly on just the passenger side of your car, but good-looking in front of you? Well, this dude was only gay when he walked away, and sort of straight when he walked towards you. Weird, I know, but…still freaky.
Before I can fall asleep the long nosed British chick with the millionaire-like husband who couldn’t get them into first class starts taking all the oxygen from the 4 rows around her. She needs my seat to soak up some of the ass fumes exhausting from the latrine. She is snoring like I have never seen any woman snore. In through her super nose, out through her mouth. To make it so bad, the lights are out, and it somehow amplified her snoring. Now I don’t feel bad about my snoring. Wouldn’t you know the plane jerked a little, and she’s looking at me all side-eyed! Like woke her up! I wanted to slap her husband for bringing her.
A line is forming at the latrine now. People near death, some holding their stomachs to indicate what they plan to do, others just needing to stretch their legs before they release every meal they’ve ever had just behind my head. The stewardesses and It’s Raining Men were furious because it was snack time, and they could not get the carts up the aisle. I swear, It’s Raining Men #1 said to a passenger “I’m going to need to get behind you.” Hey, cran-apple juice came out my nose, man! Darrell was suddenly enjoying this lengthy-ass flight.
Back to my point. That is a shameful walk when you come out of the latrine with seemingly a new lease on life. Everybody knows you rocked the spot! Dropped some kids off at the pool! Some had that look like, “Pheuw, I was holdin’ nat one since ‘Vegas!” Wouldn’t you know it….. my body is giving me the signal. No, man! Not on the plane! 80 asses touched that seat! I’m going to save it for the hotel.
Well, my contractions were 7 minutes apart. (Baby up high means boy, down low means girl.) This was twin boys! Cinnabun, and a Texas burger in LA. Time to cut up some rags, is there a doctor onboard? Then, it hit me. Straight down my lower back like a shooting pain, only, this ain’t kidney stones… I’m having a baby! A Texas-sized Cinnababy! My legs are numb from the thighs down. Make way, make way! Now I’m dancing in the aisle like when me, my mom, sister and brother lived in that one bathroom house and my sister fell in love with her damn hair! I had to rush right in after the sweaty browed dude exited, …needless to say, he left is ass in there with me! Eyes burning, trying not to breathe… I need to take a seat soon.
I fidget with the paper ass gasket they provide so your checks nor dingle dobber doesn’t touch anything foreign. Unbeknownst to me, I let out a wail.. “Ooooohhhhphmf!” It’s Raining Men taps on the door “We okay in there?” Aww, hell no! I may have to stay in here the rest of the flight now! The entire plane is going to be waiting to see who made that noise. I give it back large, in a deep voice “Cool, man. I’m cool!” What next? Turbulence! Just as I turned to back up and sit…the ass gasket half falls into the latrine. Sit on down or reach for another one? I go old school and use an entire roll of toilet paper and built a mattress atop the seat and sit down… I think, and don’t quote me, I fell asleep for a minute. It felt like a Lincoln Navigator passenger seat! Comfy.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve started out initial decent into Tahiti. The Captain has illuminated the fasten seatbelt sign….” Honestly, I fell asleep after I had the babies. It took so much out of me that I drifted off. I named them after It’s Raining Men #1 and 2, then flushed! More when I settle into the hotel.
R&R
So, I am spending a little time at a resort in Tahiti. Papeete, (Pah-pah eat-tay) to be exact. Not only is the place off the hook, the only bad thing about it is they speak freakin’ French, minus the bad dental work you normally associate with overly pronounced syllables and questionable comedy.
Bora Bora is a definite must, folks! Though it’s odd to see people who look Asian/Hispanic speaking French. That Christopher Columbus invaded everywhere, didn’t he? Pillaged all the good spots, and left them with a shitty language and no Tarter control Crest!
On this day, I am chillin’ poolside just a few yards from the beach, thinking a coconut is going to fall onto my head. I’m paranoid about crap like that. Still, I needed shade. No need to go directly into the sun seeing as how the veteran sun tanners look like an old sausage link you find when you move a couch. Secondly, though of African American descent, I still don’t need to be directly IN the sun to realize that this vacation is going to kick ass! Tahiti? Damn, right!
Uuuuuurpt! Yes, hit the breaks because, my moment in the sun has been interrupted by an actual oiled-up French dude in speedos. They get up close when they talk to you, too, foul about the mouth like you’re standing behind a horse or something. Mint, floss?
He greets me with the typical Frenchy “Bon jour.” To which I respond, “Hey, how’s it going?” He chuckles with that “Silly American” Frenchy attitude, “Here we speak French, it is Bon jour, sir.” I just look at him. (contemplating slapping him with a white glove like I’ve seen in movies) Not confused, but positive my love for French people may never reach above a few dishes they are known for. I ignore the fucker because A: I’m an American, (we kick ass, and fight wars Frenchers are too afraid to fight themselves) and we’ve got enough foreigners hating us for reasons they could never articulate. And B: Jail? In Tahiti? Nope!
Lots of old people here, so I clearly booked in the “near death” season. Old dudes walking around with those long balls and mellonesque stomachs of theirs, belly button full of more water than the adjacent pool….socks and flip flops. Nonetheless, I like old dudes—unless they have those faded tattoos on their forearms that you know are from a war or some period in life where they hated the world.
These old dudes were different. Sniffin’ out poon! Yup, fanny packs filled with, I assume is Bengay and Viagra to the 10th power! A few feet away splashing, if not, drowning in the pool, is old chicks in two piece bathing suits, big ass sunglasses and leather-like skin, asses like smashed soccer balls. These old dudes were posted up, too, like my younger days in nightclubs. Horny bastiches! They weren’t headin’ back to their chalet without some ‘tang tonight! Old wrinkly ‘tang, but some ‘tang nonetheless. I was waiting for one to yell out “We got rubbers!” they were so focused. Yes folks, old people leave the country to hunch their backs out in paradise. Ever notice how many bow-legged grannies are running around? Hmm?
After the sight of old balls and long tits got the best of me and my appetite, I saw it fit to have a few cocktails. After all, the youngest chick there was in her 50’s, so, unless I was going to learn French and ruin my dental work overnight, may as well hit the bar. There I spotted the coolest old dudes ever. Ever! You could tell they had money because they didn’t give two shits about anything. I think one wanted to fight me, and I would have, if he, you know, bumped chests with me or gave the stink eye. I passed on the De la hoya fight for this, so somebody is going to take one for the team.
I’ve never seen old dudes in full-on mack mode, and, though in French, was working. All the old hats were giggling at their every little word, bellies wobbling and all. Tizzles spread about their armpits when they’d lay down, thus, they weren’t wearing bras, but flimsy swim suit tops. I had to lean over into the bushes after seeing that a few times. $47 worth of liquor came out after seeing one go topless…by accident. 77-year-old tizzles? Word! Look like two pillow cases on a clothes line! Gross!
The dude with the hair growing out of his ears seemed to be the coolest because his shirt was the ugliest, (I mean bright red!) and his shorts rode very high above the knee. In fact, he may have been naked from the waist down, I’m not sure. Hot pants? His wing man was sporting equally unidentifiable lower garmentry, but his flowered shirt was unbuttoned to expose his grey haired, sheep’s wool-like chest. All I could think about was the thread count on the dress shirt I’d make if I had chest hair like his. Ashy, grey, and bulging through the one button holding his shirt closed, old boy was ready to roll. Old coolness at it’s best.
Does the story end here? Nope, I look down at my drink, sip, look up, 4 old people are gone! Gone! Missing! There’s going to be some body rockin’ tonight! Park an ambulance outside, somebody is going to try and do too much! I turned my TV up that night because I did not want to hear old moans and groans through the walls. One good “Ooooh, tear it up, Rutherford! Tear it up!” or “Lift your leg up, woman!” and I’m out of there!
Then it hit me! My gameless ass was sitting there, dameless! Sure, an Escalade-Orange septuagenarian gave me the eyes, but she may have been nodding off. Don’t want to get shot down my some chick with her drawers up to her chin. Plus, well, I’m a stud, so this chick might want to refer to her health care provider to see if black men are covered by the policy. Them new hips cost!
Sadly, none of the Tahitian chicks on the brochures actually live or work anywhere near the resort. Damn false advertising! Some worked in town, but being the only brother I saw that day in town, you don’t want to start laying the mack down and inviting strange chicks to your hotel with Frenchspanic men staring right at you. This is a bust, man! Not that that’s why I went there, but hell. I even went to the front desk and pointed at a poster on the wall. “Where is she!?!”
There I am, back in my room watching French cartoons, subtitled in, I think, Japanese! Not sure, all I know is I’ve seen similar lettering on the lower backs of several strippers. I fall sleep with my screen open midday. (The room has this glass door dealy that slides all the way open so you can feel like you are right up on the beach.) I awake around 9 pm to find Tahitian gnats eating my ass alive! They don’t tell you that! I heard them chewing they bite so damn hard! At first I thought I had been shot! I flick on the light and I had skeeter bites the size of quarters on my legs and arms! They go for those first so they can fly off with your wallet, then you can’t chase them.
Do you know what I last thought was before I fell asleep? Gutty Gutson and Mr. Short-shorts putting that mack down whilst I sucked down cheap liquor thinking about the fight in ‘Vegas! Out gamed by old heads!
Holly would?
Saw a television show today where the mother of a beautiful woman is telling the man pursuing her daughter that he is below her daughter’s standards. Really? Read on. The woman in question is already engaged (when will Hollywood write an original script?) to a wealthy man who can give her everything her heart desires. In short, why date the nice guy when she could fuck a rich guy and buy everybody a house? That isn’t hoe’n? That doesn’t go against everything moral women stand for? And we all have this problem with how rap music portrays women? This has been around for centuries!
The simp’ in love with the girl is destroyed by this as if there is no other woman on the planet. “But, …but ..I love her.” Dude, she only likes men who can pay her way through life! You don’t get that? It’s not clicking that the finer they are, the more they expect you to come to the table with so they can show their friends what their pussy got them? It doesn’t register than the finer the woman, the more she wants to be rewarded for how she looks? Every fine ass Hollywood chick has a story about being done wrong by some other male celebrity that most men knew was swimming in women to begin with. Why she dated him only baffles other women who believe she deserves better.
Am I generalizing? How many women sleep with Tom Cruise and end up with a lucrative career? There’s something in it for them? How many super models are divorced from alcoholic, drug-addicted, cheating rock stars? They are so dense upstairs that they believe their pussy cures every addiction known to man. Catherine Zeta Jones married an old crusty actor thrice her age! Why? His millions are what she believes her body, her sex is worth. Anna Nicole Smith married a billionaire older than igneous rock! Same reason! Find any ancient, nearly mummified celeb and he is most likely swallowing Viagra in order to mount chicks most men will never even open a door for. Is he a poon hound, or is she a whore? She’s 31 and he’s nearing 70. A 70-year old woman doesn’t even expect much from is dusty ass, yet these women want us to believe he offers more than “quit your job” status? Please.
The finer they are, the more delusional they are about what they bring to the relationship. Women know this, despite how much they try to spin it back onto men being the blame. Carmen Electra hasn’t been around many, many blocks? Pamela Anderson-Lee-Rock? Kid Rock, of all people? Paula Abdul? Magic Johnson wasn’t the only Laker hittin’ that and you know it! Madonna? Mad because her image is slutty? Dennis “Freakin’” Rodman? Angelina Jolie? Everbody’s sloppy seconds when it comes to her. Britney Spears? 2 marriages, two kids, two divorces, ..in 3 years? Nuff said! The list could go on, but the reality is simple “Why date a regular guy or fall in love when my looks and the promise of sex with me can get me so much more?”
Men, society is trying to condition you to believe that all women deserved to be look at through one lens, yet they never say the same about men. “Oh she’s not a hoe, she lonely.” Really? Daddy never loved her, had no friends, seeking approval? If she screwed Dennis Rodman AND the guy from that one band I forget, plus has a baby by an athlete. Hello?
The reality is, and shall remain this: You will never marry a better woman than when you were broke. The woman you can get now that you have riches only indicates how well you’ve done in your career, not the type of woman you deserve, or, woman she is for that matter. When Tony Parker (San Antonio Spurs) first came to the states he brought a dusty white girl with him. She used to sit in the stands like they drove there in a convertible, bad French teeth and all, looking a hot mess! When they won the NBA championship….Eva Longoria! “Nuff said! Eva would never have let him park her car if he was Tony Parker the parking attendant. Go ahead, deny it. This, ladies, is why men with money never value the women they get. They know it’s all bullshit! This is why Eva is 32-ish and Parker is in his early 20’s. This is the best-looking piece of ass he’s ever had, and he thinks it gets no better for him.
Hollywood needs to give up on trying to place all women on pedestals without first acknowledging that only a certain number even deserves it. And if she hasn’t raised children, kept a family together, stood with a man of equal worth, what really has she done besides wake up attractive? Most beautiful women haven’t accomplished shit in life! Nothing! Find a lesser attractive women working two jobs, raising several kids, possibly taking care of an ailing parent and you’ll hear a real story about womanhood. Fucking a rich guy to live in the suburbs means you’ve prostituted your way into a false sense of self-worth to the other worthless stay-at-home millionairessesss who believe they deserve every penny their husbands earned.
Call it chauvinistic, misogynistic or whatever you want, any man who thinks for himself knows something is inherently wrong with that mentality. No movie suggesting that women deserve the world will ever sway my judgment any other way. I love women, but they have some harsh reality coming their way if they think men owe them anything. Come to the table with something, or remain seated with your bitter, equally delusional friends assume the world isn’t fair. It’s a movie, not how shit happens in real life.
Blind-sided
Despite the many emails I receive asking why I only champion male issues, the answer should be clear: Not enough men are doing it! I could easily have written books to cater to the female psyche, lamenting the whoas of the female gender when I strongly believe women have a greater hand in how their lives turn out than men. The only thing men are certain of is they need a job to survive, and most likely a better-than-average one if she wants to date an attractive woman or keep one happy. Women benefit from failing in relationships, dressing inappropriately at work, being born cute, getting pregnant repeatedly by unscrupulous men. No matter the situation, society has a program in place to take the burden away from females and the choices they make, and place them squarely onto the shoulders of the men they made these choices with. Deny that, and you’re just a hater. LOL!!!!
Women, on the other hand need to come to the table with nothing but sex appeal and the rest can be written how they so choose. Nothing is more evident than that than the countless drop dead gorgeous women I know and have met over the years with absolutely nothing going for them but their looks and yet, somehow have a decent job, a few kids, men falling at their feet buying whatever they want and taking them wherever they want to go. Somehow, in the midst of all that, they cannot find happiness because they missed a salon appointment, gained a pound or two, or cannot afford the latest fashions.
Real mean cannot be preoccupied with crap like that because we have to make something of ourselves before a woman even respects us or gives us the time of day. Women, on the other hand, can show up completely empty handed, and sadly with some, empty headed…and still end up living a privileged life. How? By marrying some fool who believes the female on his arm validates his worth, his success.
Most women have gone on so many free dates that they don’t even recall what food costs. I know many who, though mind-numbingly fine, can barely string a sentence together and own nothing but a collection of shoes or purses. Bad credit, foul attitude, lacking in etiquette. And, to other women with no drive, she has it all. The perfect life. Shoes. Because men want to bed her, not truly care for her. The shoes, purses and trips are a tradeoff for what he feels she believes her body is worth. Dig all up in that one, that’s real!!!! A trip around the world is peanuts to a man who owns his own plane. Shoes to a millionaire is pennies for what he will do to her sexually to ruin her for the next man caring for her with his heart and not his wallet. Choices he makes, or choices SHE makes?
The real men that most women avoid out of that fear that who he is will expose how intellectually lazy she actually does not have a dog on this fight. To most women, they don’t even exist. At least, not those men who cannot think on that level. Sort of a one-note existence of being attractive at all costs. Those men are what you see claiming to be metrosexual, when they are, in fact, bisexual. These same thuggish, hood-minded imbeciles who literally wear the cost of a 4-bedroom domicile on their wrists to impress women are poor excuses for men. Yet, women fancy themselves to cry these men only care about themselves, money, cars or fame. Duh! His watch costs more than a house! What part of him did you thing was “real” aside from his million dollars jewelry collection? Why you watching the video, singing the song, dancing to it, or pregnant by him? (Ouch!)
All this proves one thing. That women with nothing going for them gravitate to the “boy” with seemingly everything they want in life: fame, jewelry, and clothes. That’s all the average modern-day rapper is. You’ve never seen an extensive book collection in a rapper’s home on MTV’s Cribs. An art collection? Please. Cars, clothes, jewelry and hoes. Maybe the occasional liquor that tastes nothing of what they boast, since they have no real class in the first place. “I only drink Crystal!” Really? Because it’s the best wine, or because you heard another imbecile with diamond-studded teeth regurgitate the same crap?
These men should get no play from women, but yet, …they do. All the play, so it seems. I am not jealous, nor do I have reason to be of those buffoons. You’ll never catch men hopping around on stage like those clowns do, but, then again, there is an aspect of me that will not allow me to disparage true black men from what are and stand for… morality, confidence, perseverance. The amount of diamonds on your necklace or tattoos on your, umm, face or neck speak more of what you will never become versus where I or any man of moral conviction could ever be jealous of. In short, they meet hoes, not women. The women complaining about them, sadly, may be the very hoes they rap about. If not, you wouldn’t be at the concert, would you? R. Kelly proved that. Show up at an R. Kelly concert, and we already know where your morals lie. Don’t we?
For those upset that I used the word “hoes”, you know the word has it’s place with a small sector of the female gender. Just like there are actual hoodlums, thugs, assholes, deadbeat dads, you name it… there are bitches, hoes and hoodrats. Those of you who claim to not have a single racist bone in your body can attest to how b/s the claim that these words have no place in society. I can’t lie and say I don’t crack open a book on black history, our struggle as a race, etc, and not fall back into my recliner thinking “Damn, white folks were some’n else!” I know white women personally that seem to not be racist, but drop them off where they are unaccustomed to the flavor, their entire demeanor will change. If not only for a split second, they clutch their purse, look over their shoulder, or walk a bit faster. Sorry, but it’s true.
In closing, men today are a sad reflection of what women indirectly coerce them to be by cosigning for their ignorance. Women can change every aspect of dating, marriage and their lives if they’d just exercise a little better judgment. Is he a thug or does he just hang with thugs? Should you even take his calls from here on out? Did you meet him in place known for promiscuity? I.e, are you a club rat, hootchie momma? Are you a hoe or just dressed like one? Do you love him, or are you sleeping with him for security or what he can do for you? Did he call you a bitch because you are one, or is that just how he talks? Why are you still with him? You see, I cannot champion what women stand for, because these days, what they stand for, often has them laying up….with the wrong men. Men like the ones they claim are nonexistent would never allow themselves to be perceived as.
Cover girls
Can you really find a good man or good woman behind a cover charge? Better yet, could respect your woman if you met and she still frequented clubs?
Sure, I know plenty of females who go to the clubs. Would I ever date one? Probably not. Okay, no! Never! Why? Because, if what she has at home isn’t enough to keep her there wanting to spend time with me or her kids, she needs to explain to me how being around total strangers and men who only want to sack dance with her makes any sense in a relationship or marriage. That’s stuff you do when you’re single. After that, she can go sit on a barstool and prostitute for free drinks and dancing with these men as repayment for the gesture all she likes. Then there is no real stigma behind slow dancing or bumping rumps with a guy you’ve just met over a shot of Tequila-if you don’t have a man at home in any capacity. Meaning, no boyfriend, fiancé or husband! Completely single! And your momma isn’t watching your kids tonight so you can get drunk and bump and grind with other men with nothing better to do. Two perfectly good reasons you don’t deserve the good man you claim you deserve: poor role model, horrible life choices.
I see it like this, I occasionally hit a strip club because I am single and not looking to marry or even commit at the moment. So, I am free to do as I please for now. But, the moment I decide I want to be with one woman, Destiny, Charisma, and Cinnamon have to go. So, if the girl I was dating still went out and drank it up at bars, danced with ass-palming disconians, would I consider her less than a woman? Yep, even if I had no intentions of dating her.
Truth be told, if you’re upset that your man doesn’t want you in bars and nightclubs, should you even be in a committed relationship with him? Does he actually have a “problem” with what you do, or a valid point about the type of woman he needs you to be to respect you? He shouldn’t stagger in the house in the middle of the night, and you shouldn’t either.
You see, no man would go into a bar filled with women, and women wouldn’t show up at these places if the chances of getting spoiled by men, and the men getting laid by women weren’t on the table. I don’t want to hear that crap about I just want to dance or have a few drinks with my friends. You’re lying! You wouldn’t be dressed to the 9’s and paying a babysitter if you had good intentions. You and your so-called friends could have had drinks at one of your houses if it was that serious. If any of you own houses.
“I just go for the ambiance.” Okay, now, spell ambiance! Stop using words other people gave you to plead your case! Either you are a lady, or a barfly. There is no in between unless there is a meal and a variety show where you’re going. Otherwise, you are a barfly, a club rat, or a hootchie momma. And, if you have kids, need I say more?
Now, I could see if the entire office was going out for drinks to celebrate or take the edge off. It’s your birthday. That’s fine. But, once or twice a week, or even regular enough where the bartenders know her by name, she isn’t marriage material. She can stop by and get serviced, but she should never be your wife unless you go to bars and do the same things. Which means, the marriage has little chance of surviving since you like to spend your weekends and evenings apart. What are the chances a husband and wife like to frequent the same spots? And, if so, how much fun could that possibly be knowing they are across the room watching your every move?
Now, in reality, just about every female has been to the club at least once in their life. And, sure, there could be one or two women in there without an ounce of hoe in them. But, should you date her, you have to question the friends who dragged her in there. If she’s not there for wrong reasons, why is she there but to accommodate friends who ride her about “never wanting to do anything fun.” So, date or marry her with those same friends, you’ve got problems either way. She went to accommodate them, and stopped going to please you. Now it’s a tug-of-war over who controls her more than the other.
The question you must ask yourself is, why would a good girl even go to the club? If her friends didn’t drag her in there, then, for what? Sex, good times, free booze, sweaty, dirty dancin? Then they have slut tendencies. The excuse. “I just want to dance with my girls” is manure. They go to get attention from men.
Although all types of women go to the club. They are there for few good reasons.
*Something to do on the weekend.
*They pay next to nothing, if anything, to get in.
*They can empty men’s wallet on what they believe their looks have coming to them.
*Meet some fool who assumes she’s a good girl.
*Or, to get laid like men do.
That only happens when young boys, or grown men with no game or understanding of how women think frequent the places women do. If the bar was filled with logical men and true players, women wouldn’t stand a chance. None of them would get out there without ending up horizontal. It’s all a meat market designed for women to capitalize off their looks and the allure of probable sex, because, if women had to pay full price and buy their own drinks, they wouldn’t show up. They’d be out of money by the hair appointment alone!
Young women go to explore what life has to offer them, by way of the night life, social scene, and what not. They’ve always felt left out for being underage. The fascination of what’s behind that door has been eating at them all the way up until the day before they turn 21. Next night, she’s in a liquor induced coma from not knowing her ass from a hole in the ground. So, if the girl is at the club every weekend, then, it’s safe to assume that she is immoral. Again, why would a wholesome, good girl go to a place to shake her ass and get hit on by club rats? She’s going there either to get freaky, milk men for drinks, dance, or get taking home.
Besides, many women deny what I’ve always felt they all do. They like to go with the intent to see how many men will hit on them, buy them drinks, or validate their wardrobe choices for the night. Kind of a “Who’s checkin’ me out?” thing. The attention gets them off, just knowing these foolish men are clambering to give them whatever they want. “I’ve even had women say, “I only drink top shelf!” when, everything about them physically or socially says malt liquor. That line has worked before, only, on a fool with absolutely no game! Top shelf my ass! None of us have jobs, relationships, and, in some cases, families or kids we value, or we wouldn’t be sitting up in this place thinking we are better than the others in here.
Yet, women have the nerve to use corny lines to excuse you like, “I’m sorry, but, I don’t slow dance.” Yep, and, apparently, you don’t parent on weekends either. Your mother has your kids so could come in here and pretend you have standards. Please! Once she hits 30 and up and still dressing like she’s young, she is definitely got hoe tendencies.
Women try to categorize whichever bar, night spot or meat market they frequent as something better than what you think it is, often, to give it prestige, when, you have to have nothing going on in your life to place such a high priority on attending. Call it “First Friday’s” “Players Balls” or whatever you want, but, in the end, you’re still dressing up to sit around and hope some fool betters your life for you. Otherwise, you’d be at home parenting, or at least preventing another teen pregnancy.
Are all women in the club hoes? The answer is … yep. They are all hoes, just at different levels of whoredom. Think about it. You go to the club wearing your best. That’s advertising your wealth and your sexual image. You go to the club to dance. Dancing is advertising your physical fitness, and suggesting your sexual prowess. I could go on and explain it in depth, but I’m tired. Suffice to say, good girls in the club are just starting out, but, give her time and she’ll be a pro. (Barflies, club hoes, gym sluts are all the same!)
Listen, the only reason men go to clubs is to hook-up with women. We’re doing good to make conversation with ourselves until a decent looking chick walks by. We aren’t there for the ambiance. We’re there to try and leave with something, period! I have a pool table, liquor and music at home, so, if there was pussy there, I’d still be at home. Besides, have you ever brung a date to a club?
Pole position
First, let me say that, simply because a man frequents strip clubs does not mean he is a degenerate or pervert. He likes naked women. This “dance facility” happens to be a place where said women are on display. Fine! Cheap, too! “Titties, and I don’t even have to take out the trash? Where it’s at?!”
Second, don’t tie any misfortunes you’ve had with a man to why you are swinging on that pole. You got yourself into that position. You answered the ad. You started on Monday! You knew it wasn’t the phone company or the fire department. Those are wooden poles, and will leave splinters in her mailbox. They were hirin’ skrippuz! What’s the excuse this time: Got mouths to feed, tuition to pay, nasty drug habit, late on the rent? No matter your excuse for pole climbing, I’d hope you don’t drag the men you manipulate for money for your, uh, ..career choice.
For the strippers (exotic dancers) who complain about the men you encounter (dry hump) in your “line of work”, find another job, or roll with the punches. (Punches meaning: folded 1 dollar bills.) Before you continue to spit venom about men, ask yourself this: Are you a stripper for any other reason than this is what you’ve chosen, or is it, once again, somehow, a man’s fault? Insert illogical answer here____________________.
Why do men frequent these places without a care? Because the very woman swinging on that pole was too cute, too conceited, and too arrogant to ever date a guy like him, and now he can get more than most men will ever get from her for, oh, say… $1!!! She used to role her eyes, suck her teeth, ignore you when you spoke, and now look at what she does. Not a waitress, janitor, or even bagging groceries…she turning tricks on a dimly lit stage…as though she is still the ish’t! That was grade school! Now look at atcha! Babies by that asshole you used to flaunt to us, hooked on dope, unable to find gainful employment so, …off with the panties! Fine as hell, and out of options already. Could you….move your—Yeah, I couldn’t see. Thanks.
Fine as all get out, and this is all you can do? Is that the fault of men? Were you coerced into it to pay the college tuition people? Nope! You’ve relied on the same looks that got you pregnant by a few thugs, hooked on the dope your ex boyfriend used to sell, or the fact that you have no other job skill other than selling your coochie to onlookers.
Women need to stop vilifying other women for doing what they don’t have the self-esteem to do: dress up, or, undress to excite your man! When you look at it that way, strippers are doing half your job as a wife because, if you were something to look at, he wouldn’t have to go to her to rev his engine up to come home and close his eyes when he’s with you. Be honest girls, that’s where you’re slippin’. Closet full of lingerie, chub’t up a bit, and want it with the light off. You’ve let yourself go.
Furthermore, if women ever decide to research any of the crap they spew, they would have a rude awakening. Which—being that the truth would prove men right—most women will never do so. So, if your husband frequents strip clubs, it could be for sex, and it could be for fulfilling fantasies you refuse to allow him to have with you.
Here’s a challenge to women. Go meet a stripper! Not your slutty friend from college who used to strip, an up-to-date stripper! A 2007! I dare any woman to drop her $12 on the counter, go into a strip club and chat up a stripper. Ask that stripper why men come to see her. Married men! Ask her! I’ll bet you money you won’t like the answer! Why? Because the ball will be right back in your court once you are done talking to her. Sure, in your eyes, she’s a whore and a home wrecker, but, so are you. If your home wasn’t wrecked, he wouldn’t be out looking for estimates!
A stripper is, once again, doing the job of many wives. She may have dozens of regulars per week. Think about that. Dozens of men either have to come see her before going to his wife. One seemingly immoral woman is doing the jobs of many so-called wives. His wife either has low self-esteem, no desire to tone up or drop the weight, refuses to role play, will not dance for him, or refuses to put on the nurses’ uniform and heels. All are things the stripper will do for your man for a dollar, when you have a house and couple cars! You have the white picket fence, the dog, the 2.5 kids, and the debit card, and… a stripper will do more for your man than you will…….for a dollar!
I honestly don’t have a problem with strippers. Strippers are only bad for other strippers. They do wonders for men. They allow us to view that beautiful creation known as the female body for pennies on the dollar of what it would cost to marry one of them. That’s right, pass this girl in the mall and you are the scum of the earth. Not worth the time of day. But, come nightfall, shake a mere dollar bill at her, and her clothes fall off almost instantly. Buy your wife a new car, and she still wants to undress with the light off.
Honestly, girls, men don’t hate you. We simply the fact that you act holier than though when you work, well, ….here. Some stripper have this attitude like the men who come there have issues or are beneath them, when they are the ones up on the poles. The day strippers come clean and admit that they really aren’t happy inside, are embarrassed about what they do, and that their egos are unfounded, things may change for them.
Who am I fooling, women become strippers for the same reasons that men sell drugs and lead a life of crime—they aren’t intelligent or motivated enough to do anything else. Still I say, more power to them. I’ll pay you take your clothes off and dance for me. Why not? If the woman in my life did it, I probably wouldn’t be here. Which lends credility to my theory that no woman can steal your man if you don’t leave a window open for her to crawl in through. No woman can sex up a man who is sexed enough at home. She cannot get into his heart through his stomach if you were doing your job at home.
Lastly, men wouldn’t covet strippers if their wives put a little effort into themselves like strippers often do. You have to admit, for a woman with a dead end job and no real future, she’s in much better shape than the woman you promised the world. Barring the slutty tattoo on her lower back, she hits the gym and looks good in lingerie. Your wife has excuses for why she hasn’t touched any of the exercise equipment she’s order with the 4 easy payments of $39.99 plus shipping and handling. But, the stripper that all women look down upon for what they do, are in better shape and are better at exciting your man than you are. So, as I asked in the book, did she steal your man, or did you give him away? Either way, you and the strippers got yourselves into this position. Enjoy your nail appointment but, that isn’t the reason he’s frequenting a strip club.