Hazards of dating a stripper
Keep in mind that she pulls down more than most corporate attorneys (who also represent a large portion of her clientele). At some early point in the evening though, you’re going to have to find her cell phone in her purse and steal the battery out of it, because that thing will ring incessantly and she will eventually find something or someone better to do.
All of those "guy friends" started out just like you, chief.
If she tells you she's not fucking anyone for money, you better do your research to make sure that's true. Technically true, but, IME the longer they strip the more any potential for a 'real' future erodes away. I also have found that FWB with a stripper is *awesome* (with the implication that, since you're just FWB, you don't get overly emotionally involved, that's really the critical element). You can just sit at home and play video games all day!
You gotta remember that strippers will do WHATEVER IT TAKES to make the money they need, and a lot of old guys will offer them top dollar to fuck them, so keep that in mind. I wouldn't wish dating a stripper on my worst enemy; well okay, maybe my worst. The funny thing is that in the thread I mentioned that I was done dating strippers, since then I have dated three more strippers lol.
Sure they're making good money now, but they've got to realize they can't do it forever. When I have no civilian prospects at all, I spend more of my time and energy socializing with civilians...
You can't retire at 65 stripping like a normal career. I like having at least a casual sex partner who I care about, and who cares about me, playing some role in my life.
By 1pm she’s already at some different guy’s house, swimming naked in the pool with him and his Great Dane named Robo. It’s a crazy affair, for sure, but just remember these do’s and don’ts and you’ll be fine: DON’T ever call her and not announce your name.
They saw the Promised Titty Land and thought they could get there, too.
Once they tired of the bullshit and drama, or she found someone else, they were relegated to "friends." They could’ve bought a fucking sailboat with all the money they blew on young Cinnamon, and now they hang on to some last vestige of hope, thinking that she may just get drunk enough some night and let them put their spit on the slit.
By 5pm she’s doing "X" at some other guy’s house, and from there she goes home for the five-minute shower and gets ready for work. Her phone rings more than all of the lines at the New York Times combined.
Don’t put her in the precarious position of trying to guess your name.