As a normal guy, sitting in your living room watching baseball and eating bacon off a napkin, it’s easy to understand that dating a stripper is a bad idea. It’s like tweaking the mustache of the biggest guy at a gay bar, or liking anything from Cleveland; you just recognize it as inherently wrong. But twenty minutes later, when it’s just you and the harsh glow of a computer monitor in a dark room, the things that women like strippers and pornstars can do with their bodies really makes you start to believe in a God, and the viability of a serious relationship with someone so fucked up they sell their bodies for money AND are interested in you. Two years ago, I dated a stripper from Syracuse, NY, the absolute bargain basement of fake tits and beat-up beavers. It started with a birthday party at Paradise Found, which at the time I thought was a name so misleading as to be practically criminal. Turns out I wasn’t far off. Candy was a small, thin brunette girl with a toothy grin and awkward navel; her boobs didn’t match her frame and probably never will, and her legs had those sorts of bruises that can only come from close contact with a cold metal bar.
She was perfect. In between lap dances and $7 RedBulls she’d hit the fully nude stage with gyrations to White Snake, Poison, and even .38 Special. Once I became a regular with a wallet, she’d make sure to crank up "Hold On Loosely" and shove that pale torso in my direction. My sweatpants could hardly contain themselves. Within three weeks Candy and I made plans to move in together, so I could stop making the 40 minute commute to see her on her 3pm chicken wing lunch breaks, and she could stop living with her “bitch of a stepmom” who wanted to do things like “feed and clothe” her, or “enroll her in beauty school”. What a bitch. We found a little single bedroom just off Salinas Street, three blocks and thirty-five stripper-heel minutes away from her work. I put in my two weeks notice as a roadway paint striper and we set the move-in date. That weekend, Candy needed to borrow my car to pack, as the title to hers was in the name of a certain evil overlord stepmother. I should have seen it coming. Within 12 hours I knew there was a problem. By 24 hours I was convinced she was dead; it’s always the strippers and the prostitutes who get plucked off first. At the 30 hour mark, she answered her phone when I called from an unknown number, and that’s when I flipped the fuck out.
As soon as she heard my voice she hung up, but not before I could catch the faintest sound of muffled giggling. I immediately reported the car stolen, thinking she couldn’t have gone far if she’s joyriding around. Well, at the three day mark, my forest green Grand Am got pulled over for erratic driving outside of Trenton, New Jersey. Candy wasn’t even driving, they found her holed up in a love shack with a Jersey Shore beachtard named Fabrice. It’s sort of hard to press charges when the whole fucking thing is so embarrassing you want to throw up until you die, so I let it go. I lost my $500 deposit on the apartment, and had to walk back into work to tell them I was unquitting; the guys still call me Candy Ass. It’s easy to see stuff like this coming when you’re on your couch. But trust me, the things those girls can do with their awkward bodies and empty eyes are a $500 lesson I’d be more than happy to learn again.
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