I’m not crazy insecure. I’m not a can’t-do-this, don’t-do-that kind of girlfriend. I’m not threatened by beautiful women, or even not-so-beautiful women with amazing bodies. (I am, however, still waiting for my own video vixen curves to pop out any day now a la Eddie Murphy in The Nutty Professor.)
Keeping in mind that I’m none of those things, I’m also a firm believer that going to strip clubs is right up there on the cheating scale. As close as 7.9 is to 8—that’s how close I think sitting in a sleazy little den of smutty dancing is to actually carrying out the dirty deed of infidelity.
Why not? All of the pieces for the freaky deaky equation are right there: mental fantasizing, physical desire, and emotional hot-and-heaviness. And let’s not pretend that, for a few extra bucks, Mercedes, Vanilla, or Delicious won’t momentarily throw their upstanding ethics to the side to perform a little more than a lappy and a pole routine. Private dance my foot. I’ve heard what goes on in those back rooms and if I found out my man was even tarrying around the doorjamb, I’d be ready to set it off Jada Pinkett Smith-style.
In the book of Janelle, if a guy wants to see other chicks naked, if he wants to run his hands across some other gal’s skin and squeeze on her soft, cushy girl parts, and especially if he wants to give cash in any dollar amount to support her—which is ultimately what sliding tens and twenties down a G-string or any other place on a stripper’s person is doing—then he can’t seriously want to be in a committed relationship at the same time.
It means he hasn’t gotten all of his wild oats sown in order to settle down and appreciate just one woman. When he’s immersed in happy coupledom, he doesn’t need to get off from being in the presence of other ladies shaking what their mamas gave ‘em. Unless, of course, what he has waiting at home just isn’t enough to keep him satisfied.
I get that guys are visual creatures. That stretched out piece of scientific fact seems to be the scapegoat for a whole lot of bad boy behavior. Checking out the chick wearing short shorts and a tube top in front of him in line at Rita’s is one thing. Getting together with his buddies to hoot and holler at some girl in a barely there set of pasties and a thong (and shoot, in some states, nekked as the day she was born) is another ball of wax. It blurs the line between real life and the seedy underworld of hot sex. And hell, after watching Mango Melons get up on stage and turn crazy tricks while dangling mid-air, it makes real women seem downright boring.
I will say this much: I took some pole dancing classes at an exotic dance fitness studio a few years ago for fun and it gave me an entirely new respect for the athleticism of stripping. You want me to hold my body weight up, contort and twirl every which kinda way, and look sexy in six-inch heels at the same time? Clearly, that’s why they pay the pros the big bucks. No one needs to worry that I found a secret gift and I promise that I won’t be hitting a stage near you any time soon.
But I took the class in hopes that I could get enough of the basics down to make up for cutting off my man’s occasional attendance at the shaker joint. He stopped going out of respect for me, just like I squelched my naturally flowing flirtiness to do the same for him.
I would never want him to go get all hot and bothered from a night down at the Pink Pussycat and then bring it home to me, anyway. What woman in her right mind wants to know that their dude’s five-star performance last night wasn’t based off his desire for her, but his redirected lust for Candy down at the club? I say no thanks. Call me a fuddy duddy, call me a prude, call me a square. But you won’t call me Inmate #4583948 because I had to go domestic after I found out my mister took a little trip to the nudie bar.
Do you have a problem with your guy going to the strip club? Do you partake of a little strip club time yourself?
Image via litonali/Flickr
