Hey ladies, don’t be pissed at me — I didn’t write the rules. Hate the game, not the playa, know what I’m sayin? Word to all you muthas, as we used to say back in the days of parachute pants and big hair. Don’t lie — you probably said it too.
Deep in the bowels of this blog, probably hidden succinctly in the last post or two, we’ve discussed how certain cat-owning athletic woman suffer from an absent libido soon after they’ve completed their reproductive tasks. It’s a chemical thing, and it is what it is. The problem is our disconnected libido levels. Daddy wants to keep getting his groove on, because that’s just how he’s built. His puny cerebrum his telling him to spread his seed, and his father told him to go forth and procreate. Daddy did what he was told. He found a good woman who was fabulously interested in him. No doubt she had a wonderfully active sexual drive at one time. There was no way for Daddy to know her libido had a mysterious off switch that would be Krazy Glued in the off position.
Mom doesn’t understand what’s going on with her body. Dad’s thinking it’s him. He wonders if she’s found someone else. Eventually, Mom will get a cat and begin jogging to shed that 30-something expanded midriff that suddenly showed up out of nowhere. Dad will sulk for a while and contemplate divorce, until he finds out many of his buddies are in the same boat. Wait — what? It’s not just me? Suddenly, things are looking up.
So what’s a group of forlorn dads to do? Why, head on out to Rachel’s Steakhouse, baby! There’s nothing better than cheap beer, Prime Rib, a couple dozen bare boobs, and a fat stack of crisp one dollar bills to make a lonely man feel worthy again. Dancers/strippers/exotic dancers are experts at making a man feel sexy and wanted. Some of the girls are married, some are moms, and some are even funding their college experience. It’s not unusual for a dancer to make a six-figure income. Shit, I’d do it if I could. There are always a few nasty crack hos to round up the mix, but they’re everywhere. Of course, it’s all show business — he’s not even allowed to touch the women, even during those $40 lap dances in the “Champagne Room.” Both parties are well aware of the rules. But a man can dream, can’t he?
And regardless of what he tells you, almost every male-only business trip involves an excursion to a place like this. Well, they did in the 1990s and early 2000s when I was still under the corporate ball and chain. Even today, some of the moms I know will fund the trip. She knows that if she can help fill his spank-bank, she won’t have to suffer through needless messy intercourse. Think about it… she has to deal with all the man-goo on her panties and inevitably on the sheets. Ten to one he ain’t doing the laundry. Plus, there’s always the outside chance that yet another parasitic human could be born, and who wants to start that crap all over again? No thank you, she thinks. Go to the titty bar, fine husband. Just make sure you come home without any foreign fluids on your Magic Johnson.
So that’s the deal, ladies. It’s not that he hates you. He probably still finds you quite attractive and very bangable. But you have, consciously or not, prominently hung a sign on the door on your privates that reads EXIT ONLY. He’s just following the rules.