A 26-year-old man has got a job at lap-dancing club by claiming to be a virgin.
“I’ve been propositioned more than 20 times but the girls won’t have much luck,” says Dave Dragas, a devout Christian.
Luck? He seems to think that the woman who pops his cherry will have won first prize in a raffle draw. In stating the number of offers he has refused, he is really no better than the playboy who boasts about his conquests. Sex may not make you wiser, but neither does abstaining from it. Perhaps he’ll realise that when he finally gets laid. In the meantime, he might learn a few things from his job of “managing” the lap dancers. I would guess that involves making sure they share their earnings with the club rather than stuffing banknotes up their cha-chas. Christian or not, he’d better prepare himself for a gruelling stint of amateur gynaecology.
He sounds like the kind of goody two-shoes who’ll really get on their figurative tits. It reminds me of the movie Klute, in which Donald Sutherland plays a straight-laced detective who initially rebuffs Jane Fonda’s tartish overtures. Infuriated by his smug incorruptibility, she tricks him into sleeping on the floor beside her bed and ravishes him while he’s half asleep. Once Klute has gone the way of a thousand Johns he is a sadly diminished figure, fawning on the call girl like a lovesick puppy. I suspect that young Dragas will suffer a similar fate when one of the dancers puts him through the meat grinder.
I confess that the appeal of lap dancing puzzled me for a long time. A fully-clothed man sits on a chair while a semi-naked woman presses her bottom against his trousers. The whole thing is monitored on CCTV, and if he dares to fondle her, a burly bouncer storms into the room and chucks him out. To top it all, he has to pay for the experience in hard currency rather than dinner vouchers. By my reckoning, there were at least 57 more enjoyable ways of spending time with a woman.
The mist cleared when I learned that most of the men involved were married. I then realised that such establishments were a refuge for the hen-pecked husband. Rather than answering his wife back, which would generate further friction, he retaliates covertly by partaking in naughty deeds that fall short of adultery. This allows him to return home in triumph, feeling like a warrior who has looted and pillaged the enemy camp. The poor deluded wife must think her husband is smiling because he’s glad to see her.
Could there be lap-dancing clubs for frustrated wives? The problem is that very few women could comfortably bear the weight of a beefcake stud on her lap. Yet the desperate housewife surely has other ways of dealing with her marital angst. A visit to the hairdresser seems to fulfill this important social function, giving her plenty of time to tell a captive audience what an incomparable doofus her husband is. Add a few flirty remarks from the salon’s official gigolo, and her zest is renewed for another bout of domestic strife.
The modern human marriage would surely be doomed without these essential safety valves.
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