Does anyone think there is an age at which one is too old to go to a strip club? Or does age just not matter as long as the clubber enjoys watching the dancersstrip and getting lap dances? Do the strippers care? Do other customers care? I assume management is happy to get whatever money it can from whoever.
I am reposting this story because I love it. It is not my story.
Something to look foreward to.
Posted December 20, 2011 (Last Comment: March 16, 2012)
It began when my crazy friend decided that my dad, Charles, and another friend’s equally ancient father, Al, had been spending too much time nodding off in front of their TV sets. She thought it would be nice to spice up their lives with a birthday celebration that would include an outing to the nearest gentleman's club.
So off we went to Mr. J’s, an unobtrusive-looking Santa Ana bar, on a Sunday afternoon to catch the first show of the day. The timing was perfect, as far as we were concerned. There were the three of us (two daughters and their crazy friend), the two elderly gents and a club empty of everyone except dancers, bartender and bouncer.
The dads rolled into the club, literally: Al sitting in his wheelchair and my dad steering his walker. Everyone looked our way, but if our little oddball parade surprised anyone, they didn’t show it. We noticed some smiles, but the staff was professional, if that’s what one would call it.
The dads took a spin down to the stage, where they parked at the edge waiting for the show to begin. We sat several rows back, unsure what to expect.
Then the lights lowered and dancers began appearing onstage, strutting sexily, snaking around a pole and doing slow strip-teases. The dads weren’t sleepy this afternoon. They were laughing and nudging each other’s arms.
But my crazy friend thought they were missing out on part of the traditional strip club routine. So she pulled some $1 bills out of her wallet, and handed them forward to the dads.
Both put the bills in their pockets.
“No,” she said, “they’re for the girls. Give them to the girls.” They looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. Two Depression-era guys with a couple of extra dollars that appeared out of the blue? No way would they give them away.
My friend kept on trying. She asked each of them which dancer he liked (both chose Cheyenne) and announced she was buying them each a lap dance. My dad, the birthday boy, would be first. He put aside the walker and stood up, his arms outstretched.
Cheyenne wasn’t sure what was going on. Neither were we. Then my dad stepped in close and began gliding her around the club in a Viennese waltz. He had a grin the size of Texas.
Other parties were held for him that year, including a large family-and-friends gathering. He enjoyed them all. But I never saw that same smile again.
The day after our trip to Mr. J’s, the three of us took Dad out to lunch. “Did you have fun yesterday?” Al’s daughter asked. “I really did,” my dad said. “I don’t quite remember why. But I had a very good time, indeed.”
I'm 41, soon to be 42 and when I see the other guys who are there by themselves in the club, I feel like I'm the young one. At my favorite club, if I go on Friday night, it's pretty much a guarantee that this one guy who has to be at least 70 will be there. The truly amazing thing about him is he will still be there at 2 AM. Then again, he might not have anything else to do the next day.
I was thinking that I would have my funeral in a strip club. That way I could keep going after I die. I do hope most of you would come to the service. And then add Dream Stripper to the glossary in my honor.
I was at a club a couple of weeks ago and saw a guy at least 80 getting lap dances, and even took a couple (at the same time) back to the VIP, they must have been back there at least an hour. Girls came out looking spent, he came out ginning from ear to ear. Bartender said he was a regular and that he take a V when he gets there. He tops really well but makes the girls really earn their money. That's what I want to be when I get old.
I had a generous regular for 3years who I met when he was 73.Also had quite a few lucrative nights at the club with guys over 80.They were polite and not touchy old schoolers,classy and tidy,had a lot of money to spend,could stay long,were not drunk and were stimulating intellectually,inspiring chaps really,and above all had a great taste in women lol.I'd rather we had more of them through the door...:) I think it's too late to go strip club when you're dead too! X
On his 90th birthday, Calvin hears the doorbell and opens the door to a gorgeous young stripper in a slutty outfit. She says "Your son paid me to give you super-sexy lap dances for your birthday." Calvin responds, "I'd better take the soup -- I'm afraid the lap dances would kill me!"
And as a not-so-young strip club habitué myself, I absolutely believe that there's no maximum age for SC visitors. There are much worse places to buy the farm than the Champagne Room!
I recently turned 69 and if I could afford it I'd be there 5 nights a week, however several of my friends who used to enjoy clubbing have lost interest or desire. Two have prostate problems and suffer from low libido. My "recovery time" after busting a nut used to be measured in minutes; then hours; and then days. Pretty soon I'll need a calendar.
I've discussed testosterone replacement therapy with my Doc and she points out that I still test in the "normal range" and possible side effects aren't good for some of my chronic conditions. So, I'm slowing down on my visits ( also because I usually preference OTC anyway) but I certainly hope I'll be Viking strip clubs 10 years from now.
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Something to look foreward to.
Posted December 20, 2011 (Last Comment: March 16, 2012)
It began when my crazy friend decided that my dad, Charles, and another friend’s equally ancient father, Al, had been spending too much time nodding off in front of their TV sets. She thought it would be nice to spice up their lives with a birthday celebration that would include an outing to the nearest gentleman's club.
So off we went to Mr. J’s, an unobtrusive-looking Santa Ana bar, on a Sunday afternoon to catch the first show of the day. The timing was perfect, as far as we were concerned. There were the three of us (two daughters and their crazy friend), the two elderly gents and a club empty of everyone except dancers, bartender and bouncer.
The dads rolled into the club, literally: Al sitting in his wheelchair and my dad steering his walker. Everyone looked our way, but if our little oddball parade surprised anyone, they didn’t show it. We noticed some smiles, but the staff was professional, if that’s what one would call it.
The dads took a spin down to the stage, where they parked at the edge waiting for the show to begin. We sat several rows back, unsure what to expect.
Then the lights lowered and dancers began appearing onstage, strutting sexily, snaking around a pole and doing slow strip-teases. The dads weren’t sleepy this afternoon. They were laughing and nudging each other’s arms.
But my crazy friend thought they were missing out on part of the traditional strip club routine. So she pulled some $1 bills out of her wallet, and handed them forward to the dads.
Both put the bills in their pockets.
“No,” she said, “they’re for the girls. Give them to the girls.” They looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. Two Depression-era guys with a couple of extra dollars that appeared out of the blue? No way would they give them away.
My friend kept on trying. She asked each of them which dancer he liked (both chose Cheyenne) and announced she was buying them each a lap dance. My dad, the birthday boy, would be first. He put aside the walker and stood up, his arms outstretched.
Cheyenne wasn’t sure what was going on. Neither were we. Then my dad stepped in close and began gliding her around the club in a Viennese waltz. He had a grin the size of Texas.
Other parties were held for him that year, including a large family-and-friends gathering. He enjoyed them all. But I never saw that same smile again.
The day after our trip to Mr. J’s, the three of us took Dad out to lunch. “Did you have fun yesterday?” Al’s daughter asked. “I really did,” my dad said. “I don’t quite remember why. But I had a very good time, indeed.”
All strippers I have ever talked to care about only one thing... dead presidents!
I'm hoping it'll be 19 over 127 for me (at that age she'll have to be on top).
Just make sure your fave has a black G-string to put on the moment her role transitions to that of mourner.
And as a not-so-young strip club habitué myself, I absolutely believe that there's no maximum age for SC visitors. There are much worse places to buy the farm than the Champagne Room!
I've discussed testosterone replacement therapy with my Doc and she points out that I still test in the "normal range" and possible side effects aren't good for some of my chronic conditions. So, I'm slowing down on my visits ( also because I usually preference OTC anyway) but I certainly hope I'll be Viking strip clubs 10 years from now.