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X-Admin: news@aol.com
From: markbul54@aol.comxyz (JonFrum)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.strip-clubs
Date: 03 Dec 2003 06:36:20 GMT
Organization: AOL http://www.aol.com
Subject: ASSC AFTSD 2003  Us and Them
Message-ID: <20031203013620.04004.00000053@mb-m07.aol.com>


     There's us, and then there's them. They are the bachelor party guys, the
chronic pool players, the expence account wheeler-dealers and other assorted
transients in the strip club scene. Although some may even check the internet
to find out where the high mileage clubs are, even  their interest in strippers
and SCs is superficial. Their requests - "I'll be in East Bumfuck next week;
which club, what time, what dancer? - makes a trip to a tittie bar sound like a
dentist appointment. "How can I get in and out as fast as possible while
spending the least money?" Consumer reports thrives on these people. But *we*
know - dancers are not blenders or mid-size SUVs. And the search, as much as
the goal, is the point.
	Who are we? We go from club to club, looking for new talent. We try the most
unlikely looking dive, hoping to find a pearl that's been cast among swine. We
sit through the entire rotation to make sure we don't miss something special.
We tend to tip the waitress well, because we know it may pay off later. We
scout the layout of the club, and use an intuitive calculus to determine the
exact spot where a tear in the fabric of the universe is most likely to open
the gate to another world. We may enjoy clubbing with buddies, but we prefer
the solitary hunt. 
	Some come part way with us, but drop by the wayside. After the initial "kid in
a candy store" enthusiasm, they crash on the rocks of disappointment. Their
favorite dancers disappear, they start thinking about the money they've wasted,
and in guilt and embarassment they resolve never to let it happen again. It's
exactly at that point, when the club that used to be a carnival of fleshy
delights has turned into a depressing prison of dashed dreams, when the bank
statment comes in with withdrawals that shock the senses, then is when their
trip ends and ours begins. We brush ourselves off, lick our wounds, and get
back on the horse.
	We believe that we are right, and the world is wrong. We don't apologize for
our appetites, we feed them. And we accept the bad with the good. If dancers
think we're fools for spending so much money on them, we know better. At worst,
we know how to cut our losses. Otherwise, we get equal value for what we spend.
Whether we prefer petite Asians, next door girls, Barbies or nasty Bad Girls,
we know that what they offer us is of greater value than tickets to Sunday's
ball game, or three new shirts, or whatever else we might use the money for. We
are the rational actors of economic theory, weighing benefits and costs. We can
only wonder what's wrong with so many men, that they don't get it like we do.
And why so few women understand what dancers give us.
	You may think that when I say "we" I'm really talking about myself, justifying
my own faults and projecting on others my own obsession. Ahhh, my friend, you
are wrong. I know because I've made contact with my fellow travellers right
here, and I've met them in the flesh. As different as our lives may be, I've
seen in them the same sense of longing for the next time it all comes together.
We may go back every week or twice a year, but once we had our first taste, we
knew we would be back again and again. And so we are.	
.