Strip clubs are not a serious business. Not even remotely. I don’t mean the business end. I’m saying that it’s not a place to be taken so seriously. Guys have been getting more and more somber over the years. It brings the whole joint down. It’s a bummer. Strip clubs should be fun. With clapping, and money, and laughter and boners. So, sometimes, on busy nights when the vibe got too thick and grim, I would dance to the most ridiculous music ever. To remind everyone that A) this isn’t a funeral, B) there are naked girls rolling about, and lastly, enjoy yourself, you’re not getting a root canal.

My classic, get-over-yourself tracks included: “Eye Of The Tiger”. “Thriller”. “Beat it”. “You Can’t Touch This”. You get the picture. Utter nonsense. And you know what? It worked. The club livened up. The guys smiled. My girlfriends would often come to my stage to squeeze my tits and slap my ass. This got the guys to engage. Open their wallets and their minds. I mean, yes, I looked like a total lunatic, and inevitably the music would turn some guys off (I also felt a wee bad for the girls who were giving lap dances), but hopefully I made up for it in big, bouncy tits and happy strippers. Trust me, happy silly strippers are the best thing in life. I haven’t danced in months, and writing about this has made me miss it. I had some of the most incredible times of my life working inside of strip clubs.

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