Okay, so I’d planned on diving into the “I was talking to my fellow author friends” conversation that I abandon three days ago but something more pressing has come up that I feel needs to be addressed. Male strippers.

Personally, I don’t care for them. I find the copious amounts baby oil or whatever they’re lubed up with downright gross. Toss my predilection for high heels into the equation, and you’ve got yourself a safety hazard!

I don’t want them near me much less touching me. I’ve discussed my phobia of all things slippery, sweaty, and dumpy-n-grindy in an earlier post, "Alright So I Was Wrong!". For those unfamiliar with the weirdness that is Tracy, it’s worth the read.

My girlfriend calls me while I’m out running errands yesterday. A few of her friends are having lunch at the female equivalent of a gentlemen’s club (don’t ask, don’t tell) and invite me to stop by. I immediately troll through my reasons to refuse but none seem plausible so I accept and set the wheels of fate in motion.

So, I get to the club, there’s a lethargic dancer on the stage doing more to induce boredom than stimulate carnal lust. I sit there waiting for the tryptophan from my turkey sandwich to kick in while my captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects, aka male genitals.

Then a wiry, sweaty, eel-like ecdysiast starts a sort of vitriolic, shaky-shake, angry dance thingy in front of me…his eyes were filled with a mix of decaying shame and bitterness. I give him the content of my wallet with the promise of more if he just…stops…doing whatever it is he’s doing!

I can’t articulate to you, dear readers, how fast I exited the establishment without coming off like a total douche. Screw it…I got the hell out of there!! And if that makes me a skittish germaphobe then so be it. Go ahead, vote me off the island. I'll be in the corner if you need me.