Because I am now obsessed with The Pick Up Artist, I am giving up all of my creative aspirations to pursue a career as Mystery’s competitor. I’ll no longer write, no longer host The Bad Ass Frank Show, no longer pursue my dreams of entertaining the world. I’m going to teach guys how to pick up women. My system is far less complicated, with much less to learn, and has served me well. Last week I gave you a taste in a blog, letting you know that a foolproof formula for getting laid consisted of two ingredients, the internet and alcohol. But contrary to Mike Hustla’s implications, I have had great success picking up women in the real world as well. The next to last episode of The Pick Up Artist had the boys practicing their techniques on “exotic dancers”, which I like to call by their Christian name, strippers. The guys had moderate success, and one even got his stripper into the limo to make out with him. Now, that’s great. But after all the training they’ve received, anything less than two strippers licking each other’s labias on the hood of the limo that’s hurtling down Sunset Blvd while you anally invade one of them, is pretty much a huge failure. So, I’m going to give you an example of how to really go about picking up a stripper in the world capital of stripping itself, Las Vegas.

This was, for the record, back in my drinking days. I only mention this because the level of alcohol in my bloodstream is pertinent to the story. Anyway, we often went to strip clubs before we went out to “regular” bars or clubs. This started way back in the day, when Big Kev and I used to tear it up around D.C. It was weird because we never really paid that much attention to the strippers. We mostly did our pre-drinking and chatted with each other, ignoring the fact that naked girls were dancing nearby. To this day I’m still not totally sure why we’d go somewhere that had overpriced drinks and tacky decor, just to spend the entire time talking amongst ourselves. But regardless, that’s what we did. Now, when we travelled out of town, it was a different story. What better place to go to get the lay of the land than to ask for assistance from girls who get laid in that land? Strippers knew the best spots to go out and often, without being asked, would offer to show us those very spots. Kev and I learned at an early age not to become “customers” to these girls. Any money spent was spent on our own drinks. Much of the time, we didn’t even have to do that. Guys, here’s an easy way to put yourself in prime position to bag yourself a nekkid dancer…when she approaches you to offer a lap dance, simply say “no thank you.” If she sits and starts to talk, listen to everything she says while you finish your current drink. Then, set down your empty glass and say, “If you tell me your real name, I’ll let you buy me a drink.” If you smile just right, she’ll lean in and say something like, “Ok, but don’t tell anybody cuz I don’t want these creepy guys to know my real name. It’s…” Abracadabra. Just like that you’re no longer talking to a stripper but a real live girl. One that will be buying your drinks for the rest of the night with other guys’ money. That’s free lesson numero dos compadre. At this point, feel free to start tipping me.

On to the story…a bunch of us are in Vegas and ready to party. As I don’t gamble, my plan there was always to get drunk and get laid. I had a 100 percent winning record. If I were playing blackjack they’d have been sure I was counting cards like Rainman. Ten minutes to Wapner and take off those panties. Anyway, We start off our night with a drink at the casino bar. There were 4 of us that night. Myself, Bill, Jerry and Doug (names have been changed to protect the innocent). After a quick buzz develops, somebody says, “Let’s go see some titties!” Yes, yes and yes. The crew heads over to a place across from the Hard Rock Hotel called Paradise Island. When we arrive we’re greeted by a “floor host”, which is strip club speak for “a bouncer in a tux”. Having held that very position earlier in life, it always made me laugh. Take a big, roided out bouncer, dress him up like a penguin and teach him to shake hands with the patrons as they walk in the door. Now our establishment exudes class and elegance. It’s like you’ve just checked into the Plaza Hotel on Park Avenue, if the Plaza let naked hookers and drunks hang out in the lobby. I feel very upscale. Please, show me to your best tiny black lacquer table, bring me a dirty glass of your finest watered down rail tequila, and allow the exotic trailer park moms to commence undulating and rubbing their oversized, uneven fake breasts in my face. I’m all growed up now dad, aren’t you proud. Or, as one of these former National Spelling Bee champs might write, “prowed”.

SIDEBAR:

You: “Gee BAF, you talk all of this “don’t be judgemental” bullshit and here you are mocking exotic dancers. What a hypocrite.”

Me: “This is a good song. Shut up and keep dancing.”

END SIDEBAR.

They give us a cool table with our backs to the wall, just the way I like it. That way I can see my enemies coming and dive behind a “floor host”. Bill, who’s got a better gig than the rest of us, buys the round and starts a tab. Immediately the piranha start nibbling.

“You guys ready for a dance?”

No.

“Want a dance?”

No.

“Dance?”

No.

Truth be told, I never really liked lap dances. So lest you think I’m “too cool” to pay for them, or don’t respect girls needing to make a living, that’s not the case. Besides, I always ended up banging a stripper, so my motivation to change my behavior simply didn’t exist. A lap dance is just odd to me. It’s sort of this weird, faux intimate interaction where she pretends to be sexy and I pretend to be interested. Whenever I have one I find myself making eye contact the entire time, instead of looking at her body. Some might take this as me thinking, “I’m not some customer. I’m a regular guy who appreciates your beauty and sees something special in your eyes.” But it’s really just me saying, “I’m slightly embarrassed and self concious to be staring at your private parts while you look at me as if you want to have a night of passionate monkey love but are really wondering if your abusive boyfriend is fucking the 15 year old tweaker that lives in the next hovel.” So, instead, I look at your face in the hopes that this awkward staring contest will make you uncomfortable enough to not want to dance for me again. Of course it always ended up with her sitting on my lap and whispering, “You have beautiful eyes.”

SONOFABITCH!

After a while, things settle down and the club fills up with other marks. We get into our drinking groove and start attracting attention. Keep in mind, we’re 4 young, good looking guys who aren’t showing a great deal of interest in the girls. That sets off the low self esteem alarm causing all strippers within a 2 mile radius to automatically seek out the men that don’t care about them. We are inundated with half-hearted offers for dances which we decline. This is instantly followed by, “Can I sit with you guys?” Of course, have a seat. As long as we both understand that I am a worthless attempt at you earning any money tonight, it’s all good. Now, one major difference between myself and most of my friends is that, the drunker I got, the cockier I got. Each drink made my ego swell and my grip on my wallet tighter. My friends, however, got slightly more pliable. This is normal male behavior and no one can be faulted for it. Quite the contrary, it’s my behavior that required therapy. And AA. And probably medication. Sadly, I eschewed all three and decided to go it alone. We see where that got me. Next thing I know we’ve got two girls sitting with us, both very hot. One blonde and one brunette. The brunette is on my lap and chatting me up, using her best game. Now, I had a vague idea that she was being “real” when she immediately whispered, “My real name is Emily,” in my ear. My suspcions were confirmed by the fact that she didn’t ask me if I wanted a lap dance, not once. In fact, she bought me 2 drinks then said, “I have to go make some money, I’ll be back in a bit. Save my spot.”

Click HERE for Part 2 of Sleeping For Strippers!