Even though the demographic we attract to this site is pre-baby boomer era, I think all of us here in our 20s & 30s, simply by watching television, talking with our parents and having some goddamn common sense can all agree that women, as a whole, have not only lost their morality within the last 20 years, but their avarice efforts have stooped so low as to steal, squander, and sue anyone and everything just for the simple fact of not having to get up off their fat, lazy asses and go out and earn a living, so they'd rather take it from someone else and live comfortably without remorse in any way possible, much like a pirate or a republican.
This is an epidemic that has affected cities, states and the men in these jurisdictions everywhere in this country, and remember thus far I'm throwing every proprietor of vaginas into an inferno and labeling, but hold up a sec . . . if the broad atop of all that is a stripper, their scandalous ways become twice as brutal and relentless with their parasitic affliction while soaking up your fleetingly short time on this planet. Now, if to just forget about the way it stands nowadays for a relieving moment, let us travel back mentally to a time when every broad on the continent wasn't a walking, pissing, shitting, puking shark who shares 98% DNA with a chimpanzee.
Before any of us were even a squirt in our daddy's nuts, there was a place in time called the 50s, and from what I hear, it was traced with poverty, war, yet remains to this day at the very least, an inspirational era we could all learn much from had our heads actually become dislodged from our collective assholes. There was no such thing as child support, alimony was rarer than an African-American philanthropist, and having to play weekend dad meant going no further than the den on weekends with a fistful of Pabst and beating your kids just for sharing your oxygen. Now, we could blame evolution or feminists right off the bat for these changes within the last 50 years that's manifested into every woman's squalid behavior in this country, but I'm gonna skip politics as being the reason your wife, girlfriend, or stripper sister is quite simply an uninspired cum dumpster and candidly say that birth control pills are the reason women are the slothful users they are today.
Yes. Birth control pills fucked us, boys, and just when you thought they were a godsend since you dumped 3 loads a day into that snatch without the fear of having her chained to you for 2 decades. The pill changed everything.
See, back then when a woman was with a man, she LIVED IN FEAR of being knocked up and solely depended upon the man to take care of her and that little bastard. Time went on and some assholes out there decided to give these chicks contraceptives, and as the decades went on, women began realizing that they didn't necessarily need 1 man and do as she was told; that broad could go out and be the fucking whore she wanted to be without much more consequence than some open sores.
Welfare then came into place, equal rights, and somewhere in the mid-eighties, these Christian broads started developing into the trollops who are right about now in time, your girlfriend's mothers, and of course then they started teaching every fucking broad you and I have the unfortunate opportunity of dating, so it all turned into a headache for heterosexual men.
Women started taking advantage of the welfare system, taking their husband's money, then in about '94'ish it started becoming mainstream for these same broads to go into a strip club at night and start showing their tits and playing with foreign penises, because really, the take-home cash was twice as nice as being a waitress or doing something else that requires some skill other than being a passable liar. Now that all adds up to the fuck story we have to deal with today.
Strippers are, as a whole, an insatiable black hole of greed and selfishness that cannot be fed. Now, I could stop there, end this post right now and you'd walk away with that weight of knowledge, but hold up . . . I'm gonna crank up the scale.
Let's say you work in a strip club and you're around a stripper almost every shift. She comes up to the bar, up to the deejay booth, or approaches your security post once in a while and starts talking about some stupid shit you wouldn't even put in a letter to the blind. To be real honest, your attention span only spans as far as her beauty gets her free drinks at a gay bar, so you listen to the broad like she's interesting and some time within the week, you two go out and spend some quality time outside of work: a bar. Well, of course a bar, because you as a man are gonna need some alcohol to numb the getting-to-know-her period, and since she's a stripper, she likely views local taverns as prescription houses---a pharmacy, if you will.
Now, I'm betting my liquid kids injected into a faggot's ass that she buys the first round of drinks because it's her objective to show right from the get-go that she's a giver; a real Samaritan that mommy raised semi-correctly, yet daddy, quite possibly made a foul play somewhere along the line like, oh say, her pajama's drawstring and fucked her up for life. Now I also bet that the next five drinks are bought by you because unlike her, your money is sitting out on the bar like a normal persons; hers is, for whatever reason, coveted in her purse like a box of Raisinettes in Oprah's fist at the first viewing of Georgia Rule. The next twenty minutes at the bar with this stripper consist of her whispering in your ear, another guy approaching her while you're taking a piss, and her laughing obnoxiously loud while using excessive body language just so she gets even more attention. She's fine, yea. Pretentious as all hell, and since you're having a good time with this vixen, you don't think anything of it when she takes some more singles off your pile on the bar so she can go feed the jukebox for the 3rd time, because, as I'm sure you're aware, you just haven't heard Hinder's "Lips of an Angel" enough on this fine, fine evening, and for whatever reason this little ditty speaks to her and makes her feel like a special, precious snowflake.
So you start dating this stripper, of course, because it's a fresh piece of lining for you to wrap your sausage in, but unbeknownst to you there are 3 other guys in the city who have become tired of pounding her into a weak limp since last Thanksgiving, but hey, I understand your weakness. You two start cuddling, watching movies, and eventually she actually finishes a blow job within the month and you're starting to feel like you might have found the one to take home to mom. Good times.
Now, just a stab in the dark here, but I'm betting she has at least two roommates if not a kid or two, so she starts spending a lot of time at your house/apartment and the kid spends a lot of time at the sitters or with the baby daddy. Your stripper bitch even starts to cook and clean up your apartment a little bit, of course, only after she's already dropped numerous hints that you, as a man, are failing and just can't seem to take care of yourself even though you've been doing it since she paid her first retainer some ten years ago, so it's a good thing she's there to save you, eh?
She seems like such a sweet girl, done wrong by her parents and ex boyfriends, so what the hell, why not drop a hundred on her at the mall? $80 dinners for the next month on this princess upon a pedestal, because goddamit, she deserves to pass Bakers and laser onto that pair of shoes and look up at you with puppy-dog eyes. Fuck it. They're hers. Few more weeks pass and you're buying knickknacks for your house costing $200 a piece whilst concurrently she conveniently dwindles to #3s at McDonalds for her part in contributing to dinner, but you're getting laid during this time so you don't really notice she's backing off flipping the tab as of late . . . Is you rollin? Is you rollin?
Bitch, I might be, but that don't excuse your behavior and standoffish ways while in the checkout line. Think she could cough up the right to grab the receipt this time? Nah. In her mind, she gives you enough, I imagine.
Now's about the time when she's already sucked and fucked you dry. You've been dropping 5 loads in her presence every couple days; 3 in her pussy, 1 in her mouth, and sporadically, if you're lucky, a gift shot up the ass just so she remembers who's boss. She's basically done everything but put her name on your lease while using electricity you'll be paying fully, eating your groceries, and making you go out at 3 in the morning to move her or your car so you don't eventually have to pay the parking ticket, because Christ knows it would never be her fault. I guess it's just the shit you have to put up with at your house, because as we all know, the stripper's residence is usually less than an ideal or convenient place for you to camp at due to her insufficient offerings.
It could be presumptuous of me or perhaps I've just had bad luck, but not in my last 5 stripper girlfriends have any one of them had a domicile worthy of me spending the night due to the amount of make-up, toys, clutter, or just plain cheap furniture she shows off as if it were bequeathed onto her from Cleopatra herself. I'm betting every guy out there dating a stripper, the relationship eventually turns into her basically living at your place because her place just sucks ass on several different levels of shittiness. In the end, all that really matters is the bedroom, and I know that harlot can't even get that right.
I mean, I have a king-sized Posturepedic, but these broads nowadays seem to only have a handed-down twin with no box spring that their kid used to occupy during the bed-wetting years, and to be quite honest, fucking them on this
germitorium is about as inviting as primitive electrolysis performed on your taint.
Now is about the time some holiday approaches; Easter, Valentines, Sweetest Day, or Kwanzaa. Doesn't matter; she's already hinted she wants jewelry so you drop $600 on something to shut her ass up, but it's around this time that coincidently she also can't pay for her own car to get repaired, or her kid needs $100 for camp, or her cell phone bill has magically tripled since you two started talking, and for whatever reason, liability now rests upon you, young lad, despite her claiming that she comes home every work night saying she made $250 but she just doesn't have the money to pay her bills . . . well, where did it go, baby? Certainly not towards your monthly nut, man.
Man, strippers don't pay for jack shit in a relationship.
You start making some comments about her being over so much and you're going fucking broke trying to keep this pig happy, so your stripper broad starts saying she's going to start kicking in for rent at your joint and she's the one you should call if you ever get pulled over by the cops because she's your best friend and the one who will bail you out . . . yea, sure, and it's at about this point you could start listening to her or a weatherman with Down Syndrome to predict if you need a snow scraper in January. You two are fighting about every 4 days, and at about this time you caring about her packing up her shit and threatening to leave for the final time solely depends on if you've video-taped your sex within the past months so at least you got something to jerk-off to the next 10 days before you find someone else to come clean and cook better than that worthless tip-walker.
It's a tough decision on whether or not to keep her away since she's 'borrowed' roughly $800 from you in cash, you've paid her rent more than once, and God knows how many pairs of shoes she has now atop the small Goodwill store you've purchased for her that could clothe a small Somalian village during locust season. Every trip to Walgreens the past month has seemed like a bell was ringing at the entrance and her loose, tired pussy were the red bucket. She's a stripper and you have a tax-paying job, yet you've been giving her kid lunch money only because sending it to school with Easy Mac has recently started to make even you feel guilty, all the while she's spreading those food stamps out throughout the month with expertise yet ironically can't cook for jack shit.
Four months into the relationship, you two find yourself at the same bar you'd originally seen something in her eyes at. Gone are the laughs you two once had at this particular establishment because your resentment is nearing the edge of seething while you buy her yet another drink. You probably take her home on this nightmare of an evening, fuck her with your eyes tightly closed as you think about someone else, which is okay, man, because we all do it.
Everyone's replaceable when they're a receptacle, even in our imagination. Remember this because a woman is easily replaceable, but a stripper can be easily temped by a homeless crackhead's fist if you're willing to provide the Astroglide and a wig of some sort. Anyways, piss on her this night and don't look her in the eye for the rest of the week---you'll thank me later.
So finally in the
relationshit, one night you've had it and lose your fucking mind. It doesn't even matter how good your girl's pussy is; you'd rather fuck a distant relative while drunk off a warm 40 ounce of Maddog than see your stripper girl's throat without it being blue and tangled in barbed wire. You don't come home one night and wake up at some other chick's house, get a cab ride home, and come to find out your stripper bitch has taken all her shit out your house along with all the money you had stashed in your supposed secret place. In the days coming, you call her to try and get your money back, but she's already spending it on the next guy and you're stuck paying all of your rent, utilities, and everything you've charged by yourself. Bummer, dude.
Finally and thankfully now that the madness is over, it's time to tally it all up.
Mathematically, seems you're out roughly $2000 dollars in the past five months, but don't beat yourself up too badly. I mean, she never really had a heart so all her "I love yous" never meant a whiff of cat piss, and those few dinners, shirts, video games and flavorful lubrications she bought to aid her blowing you doesn't even come close to adding up to what you've spent on her financially. So how does one get over this? It's a good question and an interesting approach to getting over feeling like a chump. Actually, it's a simple mathematical formula that is going to bring you the closest thing to closure as you're going to get.
Take the amount of time you spent with her and try to forget anything promising she might have displayed by accident. For a nice, round number, let's go with 5 months. That 5 months equals 150 days, and hopefully you've abused every orifice of hers like a milking machine to the point of confidently saying that on average, you dropped a load twice a day, which equals 300 cum stains.
Now you take the $2000 you're out and insert your 300 ejaculations as elementary division.
2000 / 300 is 6.66 (how convenient.)
Take the 6.66 and put a $ on it, and it turns into $6.66
Looking at it that way, it cost you a little over six bucks to cum with her physical assistance. Multiple times. In every position possible and every hole available. Only six bucks and some change.
And you don't have to use the numbers from my recent nightmares. Use your own 'cause math is fun!
Don't you see the beauty in that, man?
Hell, a hooker charges $150 for just one load out of your dick and that's with a condom.