Habituates, whores, and indoctrination
I have concluded that I am habitué, for the most part and not an addict, after dropping about $130 on strippers and other hedonistic debauchery. I am not the average strip club patron, who is looking for nothing more besides some female contact, a quick rubdown to stroke off later that night. Despite the common woman’s intuition that he is there to "whore it up," going from woman to woman as if he were their pimp for the night, or to procure sexual accommodations, which, for the most part, doesn't happen in the more reputable clubs in Seattle, hell they didn't even serve beer at this second rate establishment. (although it is a different story outside, hand jobs and blowjobs are practically given out like cotton candy but chances of getting something you didn't pay for increase dramatically dependant on penetration, almost exponentially, most men would never take those odds no matter the pay off, it's just too risky)
One who is addicted has an urge to fill and a drive to that desire despite the steep $20 door fee and clothed lap dance (another $20) with a decent variety of women and only a few dog faced one's, while the other (like me) do it out of curious habit without a drive to foe-fill or an urge to do such, a Pavlov dog mentality (ring the bell and watch me slobber). But once you get caught up in a pattern, it gets harder to stop the momentum and you just start looking and paying for them to dance on you. At first I take my time and see the girls, push away the advances for lap dances and enjoy the music (ranging form Marylyn Manson to golden earring, good stuff) Men make it obvious who and when they want to pay for a dance by hollering gibberish and beating their chest like some gorilla in heat, and that is what I wanted to do with most of them, but I am a man of great self control. So 5 minutes later I saw the one I wanted, some young thing with a good rack and a Japanese word tattooed on the small of her back, only out of curiosity mind you, to know what it meant. I got her attention with money (just like a woman) and soon she was sitting on my lap with dollar signs in her eyes. The names and shapes become blurry from here on. Then again, who the hell wants to remember which one is called vanilla, jasmine, clover or oregano and who was that girl with the snake skin tattoo (slither?, Sidewinder?, Tiffany?) it just doesn’t matter unless you are addicted to someone working their way through nursing school (who the hell falls for that one still?).
But it only takes one greedy stripper to pull you away from continuing (yes, it is getting weird for me to state things in the second person, as if this may happen to you) here, but the pattern is set. You've tried this club, but what abut the peep show, you have never seen a peep show yet, have you? Stepping through the doorway, I get a quick glace from some woman working the desk that looks like she belongs in a Rancid concert, tattoos, piercings, and a 3 inch Mohawk selling second rate t-shirts and now giving me no concern. She takes a note from some old man trying to desperately send some insidious message to the dancers in the booth "make sure she gets it, it is very important to me and a matter of homeland security" And so down the gutter we go, meandering into what will only be a bad idea and a waste of money. It's one thing to pay to have them dance on you, but quiet another depravity to pay just to see them fondle themselves as you emulate at 25¢ every 45 seconds. It's just as bad as you imagined it, and then it gets worse if you happen to open an occupied stall, and witness a man beating away undisturbed, frustrated, and somewhat apathetic to you like a journalist looking for a story, or some monkey in heat ejaculating in front of second grade zoo field trip. Poor Jasper, asking the teacher what is going on and then looking in curious revulsion just before it hits his open eyes (it always hits the eyes in porn flicks for some reason, missing the mouth entirely! Why?) and making his eyes burn while incurring a $12,000 yearly bill for therapy until the age of 52, and a fear of his own copulation. But I digress.
"Oh, sorry for that interruption, continue on with what you were doing, pay no attention to me kind sir" (apologies are necessary because I just forced him to spend another $5 to finish) This time I look more closely and enter an empty one. I avoid stepping (at all cost) the puddle of indescriptive goo at just the right distance from the booth door to suggest its origins. In front of me, the obligatory dollar and coin slots, a small Plexiglas window and lift gate in front of it that opens up as soon as I feed the slots, to the side there are full trash bins and empty towel dispensers. On the other side of the window there is a room covered with mirrors and women that would remind you of your drunk aunt Sophie at the family reunion, flailing about, saggy tits, stretch marks and a small belly, too old to strip but still young enough to give men a hard-on. Drop the quarters and watch them prance around, coyly fondling themselves just enough to keep warm but never enough to enjoy themselves even when their shift is over, and like some shore man getting off work, they slouch away and high five the next girl, which cleans the mirrors as her shift starts. Well that blew off a good $7. Oh, look, a private show room with 2 girls (a minimum of $5), haven't seen that yet. One last Caligula impression and I am finished. I slip in my last $10 and the curtain pulls back this time, 2 chubby 27 year old girls appear, long in the tooth and indifferent, like some French whores. I put on some headphones and hear Nichole "ohhhh, ahhh, mmmm, do you like that big boy! Do you want me to suck on Shanda's unshaven snatch?" Oh yeah, nothing turns me on more than an unshaven, unbathed, fuzzy mustached, French looking woman sucking on something that resembles a giant hairball carpet in between the legs of a fatter version of Nichole! (I am repulsed but yet intrigued...hnm...) But as soon as the action gets interesting, my time is up, yes, 4 minutes, $10, what a fucking rip off!!! In retrospect it was a bad idea that could have been learned some other way. Next up, the donkey show! Walking out and feeling more raped than those women with noggahide pussies in a gang bang, I look for the nearest bus stop and begin to notice the ratio of ugly men to good looking women. Pondering this obviously unusual trend, I conclude that these must be hookers, or just whores selling themselves for some stability in life, as we all do.
Whores to the dollar and comfort of a steady relationship, “I can not hope for more than this” attitude exudes from this climate. Or “this is just for a while, until this rough patch clears,” but it never does, and they are just left used and empty to an uncertain future and more Starbucks, Wal-Mart, Home Depot or nameless strip malls with openings in middle management (the American way!!). But where is the dream? Who cares anymore, there are bills to pay, mortgages to subdue and desires to fill. Whores walking the streets, whores selling you coffee, what’s the difference? Both spread disease of one form or another. A physical disease manifesting itself is at least treatable, but one that is mental is not so easy to catch or to cure. These diseases cause by bad reasoning or cultural/social standards are just as damaging. Smoking is a good example, a social standard turns to addiction another is high fashion and yet another is diet and health. One deceptive trick in this culture is to make you assume a need for a desire and have you see no other way of getting it than what they present. Wal-Mart “low buys,” McDonald’s “dollar menu, taste better than a lotto ticket,” a catch phrase society with quick answers but no substance. Home Depot was the first (and thankfully the only) that I applied and received employment from. Quickly, they scoop me up and put me into one of their indoctrination camps. Show up Saturday, 8 am, sharp, early arrival shall be reprimanded, late arrival will be punished! The 2 day torture session was paid, but not worth my time or their pay. Nothing is learned (of any value), just a seminar on the party line. A weekend long corporate commercial brainwash, the likes of which Gerbil would be proud of and Hitler would revere as the goal for the youth training camps and joy division. A disgusting display of legal mind wipe, all that was needed was pills to take in regular intervals (to wipe your soul clear of morals) with unknown liquids (to quicken the indoctrination) as we sat in dark rooms watching a video tape loop ever 3 hours selling something we didn’t want, or just QVC on a hardware binge. It was fucking torture, drugs, oh how I needed drugs, if just for those 2 wasted days. God, father, why have you forsaken me!!?
I could write another 500 to 1000 words on this experience, but what’s the point, I am rambling now, would you want to read it, do I want to recall it? Questions abound and desire lacks.
One who is addicted has an urge to fill and a drive to that desire despite the steep $20 door fee and clothed lap dance (another $20) with a decent variety of women and only a few dog faced one's, while the other (like me) do it out of curious habit without a drive to foe-fill or an urge to do such, a Pavlov dog mentality (ring the bell and watch me slobber). But once you get caught up in a pattern, it gets harder to stop the momentum and you just start looking and paying for them to dance on you. At first I take my time and see the girls, push away the advances for lap dances and enjoy the music (ranging form Marylyn Manson to golden earring, good stuff) Men make it obvious who and when they want to pay for a dance by hollering gibberish and beating their chest like some gorilla in heat, and that is what I wanted to do with most of them, but I am a man of great self control. So 5 minutes later I saw the one I wanted, some young thing with a good rack and a Japanese word tattooed on the small of her back, only out of curiosity mind you, to know what it meant. I got her attention with money (just like a woman) and soon she was sitting on my lap with dollar signs in her eyes. The names and shapes become blurry from here on. Then again, who the hell wants to remember which one is called vanilla, jasmine, clover or oregano and who was that girl with the snake skin tattoo (slither?, Sidewinder?, Tiffany?) it just doesn’t matter unless you are addicted to someone working their way through nursing school (who the hell falls for that one still?).
But it only takes one greedy stripper to pull you away from continuing (yes, it is getting weird for me to state things in the second person, as if this may happen to you) here, but the pattern is set. You've tried this club, but what abut the peep show, you have never seen a peep show yet, have you? Stepping through the doorway, I get a quick glace from some woman working the desk that looks like she belongs in a Rancid concert, tattoos, piercings, and a 3 inch Mohawk selling second rate t-shirts and now giving me no concern. She takes a note from some old man trying to desperately send some insidious message to the dancers in the booth "make sure she gets it, it is very important to me and a matter of homeland security" And so down the gutter we go, meandering into what will only be a bad idea and a waste of money. It's one thing to pay to have them dance on you, but quiet another depravity to pay just to see them fondle themselves as you emulate at 25¢ every 45 seconds. It's just as bad as you imagined it, and then it gets worse if you happen to open an occupied stall, and witness a man beating away undisturbed, frustrated, and somewhat apathetic to you like a journalist looking for a story, or some monkey in heat ejaculating in front of second grade zoo field trip. Poor Jasper, asking the teacher what is going on and then looking in curious revulsion just before it hits his open eyes (it always hits the eyes in porn flicks for some reason, missing the mouth entirely! Why?) and making his eyes burn while incurring a $12,000 yearly bill for therapy until the age of 52, and a fear of his own copulation. But I digress.
"Oh, sorry for that interruption, continue on with what you were doing, pay no attention to me kind sir" (apologies are necessary because I just forced him to spend another $5 to finish) This time I look more closely and enter an empty one. I avoid stepping (at all cost) the puddle of indescriptive goo at just the right distance from the booth door to suggest its origins. In front of me, the obligatory dollar and coin slots, a small Plexiglas window and lift gate in front of it that opens up as soon as I feed the slots, to the side there are full trash bins and empty towel dispensers. On the other side of the window there is a room covered with mirrors and women that would remind you of your drunk aunt Sophie at the family reunion, flailing about, saggy tits, stretch marks and a small belly, too old to strip but still young enough to give men a hard-on. Drop the quarters and watch them prance around, coyly fondling themselves just enough to keep warm but never enough to enjoy themselves even when their shift is over, and like some shore man getting off work, they slouch away and high five the next girl, which cleans the mirrors as her shift starts. Well that blew off a good $7. Oh, look, a private show room with 2 girls (a minimum of $5), haven't seen that yet. One last Caligula impression and I am finished. I slip in my last $10 and the curtain pulls back this time, 2 chubby 27 year old girls appear, long in the tooth and indifferent, like some French whores. I put on some headphones and hear Nichole "ohhhh, ahhh, mmmm, do you like that big boy! Do you want me to suck on Shanda's unshaven snatch?" Oh yeah, nothing turns me on more than an unshaven, unbathed, fuzzy mustached, French looking woman sucking on something that resembles a giant hairball carpet in between the legs of a fatter version of Nichole! (I am repulsed but yet intrigued...hnm...) But as soon as the action gets interesting, my time is up, yes, 4 minutes, $10, what a fucking rip off!!! In retrospect it was a bad idea that could have been learned some other way. Next up, the donkey show! Walking out and feeling more raped than those women with noggahide pussies in a gang bang, I look for the nearest bus stop and begin to notice the ratio of ugly men to good looking women. Pondering this obviously unusual trend, I conclude that these must be hookers, or just whores selling themselves for some stability in life, as we all do.
Whores to the dollar and comfort of a steady relationship, “I can not hope for more than this” attitude exudes from this climate. Or “this is just for a while, until this rough patch clears,” but it never does, and they are just left used and empty to an uncertain future and more Starbucks, Wal-Mart, Home Depot or nameless strip malls with openings in middle management (the American way!!). But where is the dream? Who cares anymore, there are bills to pay, mortgages to subdue and desires to fill. Whores walking the streets, whores selling you coffee, what’s the difference? Both spread disease of one form or another. A physical disease manifesting itself is at least treatable, but one that is mental is not so easy to catch or to cure. These diseases cause by bad reasoning or cultural/social standards are just as damaging. Smoking is a good example, a social standard turns to addiction another is high fashion and yet another is diet and health. One deceptive trick in this culture is to make you assume a need for a desire and have you see no other way of getting it than what they present. Wal-Mart “low buys,” McDonald’s “dollar menu, taste better than a lotto ticket,” a catch phrase society with quick answers but no substance. Home Depot was the first (and thankfully the only) that I applied and received employment from. Quickly, they scoop me up and put me into one of their indoctrination camps. Show up Saturday, 8 am, sharp, early arrival shall be reprimanded, late arrival will be punished! The 2 day torture session was paid, but not worth my time or their pay. Nothing is learned (of any value), just a seminar on the party line. A weekend long corporate commercial brainwash, the likes of which Gerbil would be proud of and Hitler would revere as the goal for the youth training camps and joy division. A disgusting display of legal mind wipe, all that was needed was pills to take in regular intervals (to wipe your soul clear of morals) with unknown liquids (to quicken the indoctrination) as we sat in dark rooms watching a video tape loop ever 3 hours selling something we didn’t want, or just QVC on a hardware binge. It was fucking torture, drugs, oh how I needed drugs, if just for those 2 wasted days. God, father, why have you forsaken me!!?
I could write another 500 to 1000 words on this experience, but what’s the point, I am rambling now, would you want to read it, do I want to recall it? Questions abound and desire lacks.