I like strippers.
I like the dingy feel of the underground club that houses them. With the flashing coloured lights and the old feel of the makeshift furniture. I like the secrecy and the thrill of dark corners and smokey air. I like the drone of bass for song after song, hour after hour that soundtracks the night from dusk till dawn. I don’t really like the expensive booze they sell but it comes with the territory as a necessary evil. I bear it for;
I like strippers.
I like strippers.
I love the way their cheap looking and bright coloured lingerie clinging to bodies by flimsy bits of string. I love their standard cheap perfume, liberally coating collarbones and thighs. I love their gyrating asses, of all shapes and sizes, wrapped around a pole or thrust in my face. I groan when a stripper goes through the motions in frustration. I love it when the stripper strips like she is stripping for stripping’s sake.
I like strippers.
I dread college.
I dread lectures and lecture venues. I cringe at 2000 word essays with a 2 week deadline that need 14 Harvard references sourced from 5 journals. Tutorials are processes to endure, to shirk when called upon and hurriedly dash from when the tutor is 12 minutes late. The final year dissertation is an apocalyptic saddle around my neck. Hovering and intimidating in all its academic gory. It takes glee from the souls of students failed.
I dread college.
I dread college.
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