I am the garden-variety business-traveling strip club patron, for whom a lap dance with a client is like a harmless game of golf. You tuck a dollar bill or five or 20 inside a G-string, sit back for an innocent bump n' grind, have a few laughs with associates over the thundering drums of a Motley Crue song, wonder where your money went as you comb the sticky carpet looking for stray bills around your seat, and leave the joint lighter of both heart and wallet.
My wife knows she has absolutely nothing to worry about, and neither do most women. She knows I would not blow her trust by paying a scantily clad woman $500 to take my pasty, fat married a** into some back room for an hour. No good can come of that. Plus I'm too lazy to bulldoze my tracks and too cheap to burn a good Brooks Brothers shirt when perfume and glitter won't come out of the fabric.
Now, that's not a wholesale guarantee of good male behavior, and I don't pretend to represent mankind as a whole. My wife and I have been married for 16 years; the drama quotient is remarkably low, the passion remarkably hot and we've never needed any chemical or psychological intermediaries to keep it that way.
"You can take care of yourself to your heart's content in a hotel room, but you best not bring that filth into my bedroom," declared one of my wife's friends when I intentionally brought up the subject of shaker bars at our holiday party. Interestingly, she said this to no one in particular at maximum volume, avoiding the repentant gaze of her husband. From my vantage point, it looked like the mini-qiuiche he was swallowing suddenly turned to broken glass.
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