This past weekend, a gorgeous lady friend of mine who removes her clothes in exchange for currency, told me about a song called “A Lapdance Is So Much Better When The Stripper Is Crying”, by The Bloodhound Gang. I almost shit myself laughing one, because that’s funny and two, because I like to make chicks cry. It’s not that I’m a dick, mind you, but rather that I enjoy controlling the emotional state of other people. I’m not particular on who the person is either. I’m just as happy to make a grown man cry as I am a barely legal girl. Sometimes, I even get a two-fer. I have sex with a girl and then tell her I don’t really like her much, and that she’s perhaps a little hefty in the rump for my taste. Often, that results in her crying copious amounts of tears. Then I take a picture of her naked, sobbing in my bed. Right now you’re saying, “But wait, that’s just one person crying. How can you call it a two-fer?” Patience my friends, patience. Once she’s been unceremoniously removed from my abode, I immediately upload the picture and embed it in a Myspace message…

to her boyfriend.

After that I maniacally refresh my “Sent” folder until I see the word “Read” next to the email. And, although I don’t get to witness it first hand, I know for certain that have accomplished my goal. I’m not a bad person. I’m more like a good therapist.

I help people feel.

My ex-girlfriend, who no longer speaks to me (Go figure), always maintained that I got turned on by making her cry. I found that to be ridiculous. The fact that my words led her to tears, which were invariably followed by me getting an erection, was a mere coincidence. Watching the waterworks streak eyeliner down her face was in no way, shape, or form, erotically enticing to me. Holding her pretty little face, eyes all red and puffy, then licking the tears from her cheeks did not get me sexually charged. I ejaculated from thinking of something else entirely. Perhaps a chicken sandwich, a ball point pen, or a skateboard,  but not her emotional distress.

And yet I still want to make strippers cry.

I don’t necessarily want to make them cry in person. Believe what you will, but I’m not gratuitously cruel. I would never actually tell a girl that she’s too fat for me, or that she looked like she’d won a lifetime supply of Hostess Cupcakes and had been living off of them. I’d simply say that “I was going through some stuff and can’t be with anyone right now”, then mock her behind her back when she left and probably write a blog about it. See, I care about other peoples feelings.

What I’d really like to do is tour strip clubs and critique them, along with the individual dancers. Much like a restaurant critic, but instead of rating the ambiance, service, and food, I’d rate the cheesiness, ugliness of the waitresses and, of course, the strippers. Then, when I left the establishment, I’d place one of my business cards on the table letting them know who I really was. As the waitslut clears away my untouched bottle of Perrier (as if my mouth would touch something in a strip club), she would read the card then let out an audible gasp. Then she’d immediately run to the manager who would start asking panicked questions. “Did he seem to enjoy himself? Did any of the fat, sloppy girls give him a lap dance? Did you offer to blow him in the bathroom stall? TELL ME EXACTLY WHAT YOU REMEMBER!” he’d scream. The DJ would stop the music, the dancers would freeze mid shimmy, the customers would stop telling the strippers how they “seemed like a very smart girl”, and all would turn toward the manager. One young, innocent newbie, who was using stripping as a stepping stone to becoming an actress, would naively ask, “What’s wrong?” and the old saucy stripper who’d been dancing about 10 years too long and looked haggard but really had a heart of gold and cared about the welfare of the younger girl would shush her and whisper, “Bad Ass Frank was here”.

Someone would faint.

Knowing full well that I could make or break any club, or individual stripper, with my blogtastic review would instill fear in naked dancers everywhere, and their abusive alcoholic boyfriends who lived off of them (because how can I work when somebody has to manage your career). For some, I would be the scourge of the exotic entertainment universe but for others, on whom I would bestow great glory by way of favorable review, I would be a godsend. Clubs would flourish or fold based on my opinion and my opinion alone. Dancers would ascend to the pinnacle of their field, and reap the financial rewards in the way of dirty stripper dollars, if I gave them a boner up. Others would quickly be fired and fade into obscurity, or end up working the day shift at the dilapidated club next to the airport with the sign that says “Bailar Exotica! Dos para un! Solamente Miercoles!”, if I branded them with a limp member. I would have power beyond my wildest dreams (and wield it like a murderous madman?). But instead of profiting from my abilities to control the hearts, minds, and wallets of all strip club workers, I would remain pure to my cause. I would not accept bribes in the way of money, or sex, or money and sex (ok, well maybe money and sex). I would perform my duty for my own perverse pleasure, my ultimate satisfaction, to fill the massive void that exists within me. The hole in my cold, cold heart. Whenever I wrote a negative review, I’d disguise myself and sneak into that club. I’d find a table strategically located where I could survey the entire room, and I’d post the blog remotely from my phone. Then I’d send an anonymous mass text message to all of the girls who’s numbers I’d certainly have in my phone in case I needed a blow job late one night after they got off work when they couldn’t sleep from all the coke they’d been doing in the bathroom that some Persian club promoter gave them. And when they logged on to the internet on their Sidekick 3’s (because clearly they can afford T-Mobiles stripper Sidekick plan), I’d watch the expression on each of their faces fall like so many dominoes. One by one, the strippers that could read, followed by the ones they were reading to, would each burst into tears. One would know she was “cottage cheese thighs”, the other would realize that she was “the ashy black chick who’s vagina was a weird shade of purple”, and yet another would understand that she was “the yellow toothed tweaker who was so fucking retarded that she’d likely been huffing paint thinner since she was 16″, and then the one who knew it was she who “clearly had a Cesarean cuz of a giant hideous scar and some serious loose skin”.

And like a pyromaniac watching the first little spark, followed by a flame steadily growing, then spreading through an entire neighborhood of really nice families who don’t deserve to be toasted alive, I would revel in watching their angelic tears tumble down the caked on makeup covering up the bad skin they had from starting to smoke and drink at age nine. Each drop washing away their sins, along with their mascara, and totally turning me on even more than if they all started making out with each other, fulfilling me in ways that nothing else ever could.

Touching my heart.

Filling my soul.

Completing me.

Or really I could just check out some strip clubs and tell you if the girls were ugly or not. That’s probably what I’ll do. Maybe get a lap dance. Any of you strippers out there want me to stop by your work?

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So, next week I’m gonna post an all new excerpt from my upcoming book, Pimpin’ Ain’t Easy. Check out my first bits of it HERE. But also don’t forget the classic true life tale, Sleeping for Strippers Part 1 and Sleeping for Strippers Part 2.