Dear Fat, Disgruntled, Middle Aged, Middle Management Fucktard with a Wicked Sense of Entitlement,
Please remember to bring common courtesy along with more cash when you come to the strip club. I swear, some of you come into to be able to PAY to abuse and belittle women. You love a venue where you can criticize women who wouldn't even LOOK at you outside of the club, much less coo at you with greater adoration than of a new mother to her infant. You would be lucky to eat my farts in real life. Quit asking me if I really like you and if I'm only into you for your money. Do you ask a roofer if he's fixing your roof for the money or the love of roofing? No. Then quit asking me if I'm sexually and emotionally validating you for the fun of it. NO, I am not. I would not do this for free. You are at a strip club, not a regular bar or a church singles mixer. No one here is sincere. That's part of the hassle free anonymous transaction, lubricated by cash and fakeness. You signed up for this when you lied to your wife about where you were going, went to the ATM, changed clothes so she can't smell the smoke and vanilla body spray you're going to reak like in 30 minutes, and paid the cover fee at the door of this STRIP CLUB!
Quit asking dumb questions. Of course, the most common question is (while staring at my chest with the intensity of a laser) "Are those real?" FUCK YOU DUDE. THEY'RE FAKE, BUT YOUR BITCH TITS ARE PLENTY REAL ENOUGH FOR US BOTH. I'll usually respond "No, they're a figment of your imagination" or "Sorry, they're actually a mirage" Men of all ages are such haters about breast implants. We all know for a fact that some of you look down on us or write us off because our breasts aren't "real", but then they make fun of the girls with natural big breasts for being "fat" or calling them "saggy" or those without them for being "flat chested". Hey, breasts are made of fat, what do you want from us?! Yo, ugmo, if we only had gorgeous skinny girls with real breasts working as strippers, then our work force would be reduced by about 95%, and would drive the cost of our services up astronomically (IE, you wouldn't be able to afford it). Your demand for $10 lap dances (with a $1 tip if I'm lucky, like I'm a fucking waitress bringing your fat ass country fried steak and mashed potatoes swimming in gravy) has created the need to outfit ordinary girls with cyborg tits. You're never going to get the chance to touch them, so what's your problem?! If you're going to bitch and question me like it's the Spanish Inquisition, go home to your nagging shrew of a wife. She's 100% natural and as wet as the Sahara for your paunch and receding hairline.
Who told you that "no contact" meant you were allowed to touch my hair?! No contact doesn't mean "you can touch everywhere but my tits, pussy, and ass" it means KEEP YOUR GODDAMNED HANDS TO YOURSELF. I have hair extensions, DEAL WITH IT. Like I said, if you want real, go home to your wife. I'm a fantasy girl. I've specifically designed myself to be what you're not getting at home and make a living at it. Read the memo.
Yes, I have a boyfriend. No, I'm not going out on a date with you. Reasons? #1, you're married. I want to have a family and husband someday, so unless you're a Saudi oil tycoon who can set me up for life as his second wife and favorite, there's no chance I'm going to fuck you just for the fun of it. I don't have time to screw around just for fun. My biological clock is ticking and I need to be dating someone I have a future with. #2, You look like post mortem Rodney Dangerfield. #3, My very loving, good looking boyfriend who is within a decade of my age (like I like it, no matter how often I lie and say I like older men) loves my fake boobs, fake hair, and tattoos. He's waiting at home for me to hold me down with his strongs arms and to fuck my brains out with his big dick that he can get up without the help of pharmaceuticals. Please give me cash so I can pay for Sunday brunch for him (it's my turn this week), where I will tell him funny stories about the pathetic suckers that I enchant for money.
I DO NOT want to tell you the special stories behind each of my tattoos. We are not buddies, ok? You are not the first or even tenth guy to ask me tonight. If dermablend didn't ruin my outfits I'd cover them all! I can't spend my entire night telling each and every guy the significance behind all 7, so quit getting offended when I tell you "You'd have to get me as drunk as I was to get it to tell you" WHICH IS AN EXCUSE AND LIE. I'M TRYING TO TELL YOU TO DROP IT.
This is why I drink at work.
You are now allowed to stop sitting on your hands to get my money out of your wallet.
Thanks,
Roxy (which is totally my real name. For sure)



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