At my buddy’s bachelor party this weekend, I learned an important lesson about the difference between strippers and regular girls.
(Scene: Interior. A popular strip club in Manhattan, NYC):
A stripper is sitting on my lap and grinding her lady-parts onto my man-parts. I’ve heard the kids call this a lap-dance. Being the gentleman that I am, I treated the lady with respect and looked her square in the eyes the entire time, making sure not to stare at her naked breasts which were rubbing on my nose. Her boobies smelled like sunshine, glee and baby powder, but I resisted their temptations. My instincts told me that staring at this professional woman’s fun-bags would somehow demean her existence.
As it turns out, my instincts were entirely wrong. This became clear as the stripper says, totally flustered,
“Please just look at my tits, dude!”
Filed under: nyc |