I Reminisce Over You, Part II

Dollie’s Playhouse, and the other stripclubs of its “kind” on the Illinois side of St. Louis, fills a need, I believe, and the older I get, the more important I understand how that need needs to be filled. I don’t think I’m an incel, just a heterosexual guy whose mother so damaged his psyche that the only way he could have a relationship with women is by filling up his wallet with money.

And yet I keep coming back to Dollie’s, happily. It’s because of … sigh, her (I guess I’m not supposed to name names [wanking motion]). By no means is this the cast of Hustlers; remember, this is a whorehouse, so you get the aesthetic bottom of the barrel (with the prime exception of Shy, a babe who, although her personality blows hot and cold, looks way too good to be working at a place like this, although maybe game theory dictates that she should work here instead of Hustler Club). And, of course, my girl. My girl is cute. And she’s totally nice. And she fucks me so good.

I’m not sure she knows my name. Maybe that should be a deal-breaker. But the last time I was down in St. Louis, she nonetheless recognized me and gave me a hug. So after we get a drink (sometimes I pay for the both of us, sometimes I don’t), we talked about life, as usual – her new jobs, how I’m getting along with my parents at home, etc. We talked about the jukebox and how they now make them without CDs in them, that there are now digital jukeboxes that either come with memory full of songs or is connected to the Internet or something. All while we are having these not-superficial and hopefully not-fake conversations, she’s caressing my groin in the hopes I get hard. The great thing about Dollie’s is that it’s so dark that, as I keep telling her, I can just whip it out and she could just jack me off right there and no one would give a shit. But I keep me pee-pee holstered. And once she feels as though I’m ready, we’re ready to go in the back.