    | Unrestrained Melons Ripe for the Picking! |
| Unrestrained Melons Ripe for the Picking! |
Uncle Melon-cholyIn this edition of Uncle Melon-choly I examine Strip Clubs and why they should really depress me. In point of fact, they have the opposite effect on most of us, but lets see why that's "melon patch"-thinking.Strip Clubs and "regular" clubs (I'm not sure I've been to one), have many differences and similarities. One obvious difference is that I have no interest whatsoever in going to a "regular" club, nor do I have any clue what goes on there. On the contrary, I have a great motivation to patronize Strip Clubs. That motivation is of course naked women. | |||
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Once seated I'm usually approached by a waitress. |
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As in any place of business where a woman is paid to provide me a service, my immediate assumption is that she likes me, and would tell me so if the rules of her profession allowed. As you might imagine, the waitress is pretty much thinking the same thing at any Club, strip or not:  
The completion of the thought is key difference between Strip and so-called
"vanilla" clubs. In a strip club it would finish with "....has to dance for
this slob for a buck". Outside the fantasy realm, the thought might end
"...has to go home with this slob" or "...is married to this schmuck" or
"...has ever even considered sleeping with this nutless wonder."In my mind of course, the waitress remains the bastion of virginal sweetness, taking care of me, smiling, and guiding me. I simply ignore the fact that she does this all for money. Once settled I cannot help but scan the club, looking at women, since that's pretty much what I do 24/7. Let's imagine my vacant, drooling mug settles on one scene: | |||
| The picture is pretty much the same both places. Perhaps in the Strip Club
her clothes would glow a bit more in the black lights, but then again that
could be the testosterone coursing through my veins. The reality in both places is that this is a woman who wouldn't call 911 upon finding my near-lifeless corpse in the gutter, engage me in conversation or any other normal human interaction. (You see, I can't even bring the subject of sex up as a possibility - it just isnt' in this realm). | |||
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As with the waitress, they are both thinking pretty much the same thing:  
The thought ends at the regular club. What we pay outrageous covers and
endure the risk of infection for is that at the Strip Club the thought
continues.... This last thought poses me with one of the greatest dilemmas. Normally I prefer to wear so-called "throw away" clothes to a Strip Club, if "wear-and-burn" isn't available. So in general, I dress "down" and look like every other slob in the joint. Fortunately, God has granted me a face that screams "geek" (Fully Loaded! Awkward Grin! Coke-bottle glasses!), so her thought undoubtedly ends with...   I won't dwell on the activities that actually occur in the Strip Club, for the obvious reason that my spouse might be reading this, so I'll move quickly to the exit. Leaving a "normal" club (my but I struggle with the concept) I feel pretty much as I always feel after leaving any opportunity of interacting with the opposite sex: like a loser. Every anxiety and mental scar from Junior High onward throbs in my mind. I feel like I'm wearing husky-sized, bell-bottom jeans and a shirt with big pointy lapels. Then I return to my usual world, where I feel like a balding, middle-aged jerk in relaxed-fit jeans, Wal-mart sneakers and a free shirt from work. Leaving a strip club has a decidedly different feel. I saunter out feeling like Hugh Hefner or Brad Pitt or some other guy who gets the babes. I ignore the fact that I reek of smoke and cheap beer and even cheaper stripper-disinfectant (or perfume, I'm never sure). This hubris lasts until my first encounter with a woman in the so-called "real world". God forbid this should be someone I know but even if it's a complete stranger, the effect is the same. For example, imagine it's the night clerk at the hotel. She says "Good evening, sir," but what is she thinking? The immediate effect is that I turn right back into the self-loathing, esteem-less bum that started the evening picking a club out from the yellow pages or www.tuscl.com. The effect is complete when I shower 7 or 8 times and rinse in bleach. Upon returning to the "real world" I really make an effort to act like I never left. For all of my desire to jabber on about the dancers and how much they obviously loved me and hated taking my money, I remain mum. To keep this secret is vital to maintaining my access to that world. "What was that honey? No, just something for UncleMelon.com. No, you wouldn't be interested." Rapid mouse movements to "Exit and Save". Until next time. 
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