Recently I’ve thought about being a stripper. Not in a realistic sense, just in a fanciful way, like how a little boy would dream of being an astronaut; putting a cardboard box with a hole cut out of one side on his head, being pulled around in a wagon, yelling to watch out for the Martians. I tear off my breakaway fireman’s outfit, reveal my snoopy banana hammock, and rub my penis all over my pillow I dressed in a wig pretending it’s a girls head, as I assume male strippers do the females who come to see them.
I don’t know how it works in male strip clubs, but I imagine everyone knows how it works in female strip clubs. It’s pretty disgusting (that doesn’t make you sound gay). I’ve been to strip clubs a few times, never really wanting to go other than to hang out with friends or for a bachelor party. Some of these girls get really up close and personal. I never would have guessed this growing up being an extremely horny kid, but I’m not really that interested in seeing five inches down a female’s vagina. It pretty much just reminds me of that monster that ate Boba Fett in Return of the Jedi. I’m going to stay a virgin forever if I keep imagining I’m sticking my dick down a Sarlacc pit.
I’ve mentioned on many occasions that strip clubs do less of turning me on and more of depressing me. For one I can’t help but wonder what happened in these girls’ pasts. Although that’s now something I think about with every single person I ever see. We all have such fucked up childhoods. Although mine was mostly masturbating and thoughts of loneliness and death. This isn’t to say that a person has to have had a messed up past to become a stripper. It certainly helps though. I just think in general most people don’t want to show their goodies for anything less than triple figures. Unless you’re me of course.
I’ve decided that I would pose nude in a magazine for possibly as low as one thousand dollars. And here’s the reasoning. I may not look good, and I may not have a big penis, but really who’s going to see it? I’ll just be some random nude guy in some random magazine. I assume my mother wouldn’t stumble upon it, and even if she did it’s not like she hasn’t seen me naked before, and that was when I was a baby, so my penis was even more embarrassingly small back then. And I’ll just use a fake name so you won’t be able to find my nude pictures unless you Google Arliss Featherbottom, and if you do that you’re just going to get results for the old TV show Arli$$ and stuff on the character Ms. Featherbottom who Tobias, played by David Cross, pretended to be to be closer to his daughter on my favorite show of all time Arrested Development.
Here’s the shocker. I’d appear in a gay magazine nude for less money. No one I know is ever going to see it, and guess what, if they do, bam, what the hell were you doing looking at a gay magazine? Wait, do gay people look at gay magazines? Because if they do then people I know might actually see it. I better think this through. I mean if a girl saw me nude in a magazine it doesn’t really matter because she wasn’t going to sleep with me anyway. But gay people tend to be critical, no offense, so they might poke fun at my small pokey, as I like to call it, and tell me to ‘lose the weight, chubby.’ I’m not fat by any means, but you flip through a gay magazine looking at those sculpted dudes and tell me you feel secure with your body (you’ve flipped through a gay magazine before?) I was at the doctors office and there was nothing else to read (the doctor had a gay magazine at his office?) He was a proctologist and this was a butt exclusive issue.