It’s been a long time since I’ve been to a strip club. The co-workers of my first job, along with the pres­i­dent of the com­pany, were the ones took me to my first. They made it a point to “ini­ti­ate” me when they found out I had never been. I still look back on that mem­ory fondly, because I was so young and green, and they wanted to get me over my inexperience.

But it was never some­thing I did with any fre­quency. You always look at those guys, seat­ing by them­selves at the head of the table with a beer in hand, think­ing, “Is this bet­ter than what you have at home?”

After all, strip clubs are never really about the girls. It’s about being out with your friends, when your par­ents think you’re at a movie¹. They’re like con­certs. You could sit at home and lis­ten to a CD with stu­dio qual­ity sound, but there’s some­thing dif­fer­ent about the atmos­phere of a live experience.

It’s easy to grow past the appeal of strip­pers though. There’s no per­son­al­ity there. Even Playboy mod­els have likes and dis­likes. The fur­thest a strip club goes is by say­ing, “Here’s Porsche, and she used to be an air­plane attendant”.

Don’t get me wrong; I love the female fig­ure. But there’s no appeal in a stripper.

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1. Some of them had ring­tones set for their home num­bers, and just the ring would set off a round of teenage spite [↑]