The hotel chain at which I stay during my travels has a corporate tie-in with a local gym. Stay at the hotel, flash your room key at the front desk of the gym, workout for free, any day, anytime. It's a pretty good deal. Seeing as most hotels have the standard 25 year old treadmill and a water cooler, the gym, packed with machines and weights is a more feasible option. About a month ago I'm running the treadmill when in walked a woman who was undoubtedly a stripper. Bleach blonde hair, extensions, skin so orange you'd swear she was jondis and a tramp stamp the size of a football on her lower back. Yep--this chick was a pole grinder. All that was missing was a gaggle of sweaty truckers throwing their life savings up on stage at her. Seeing a woman you know is a stripper outside of the club is a lot like seeing your first grade teacher shopping during the summer at the mall. It's kind of weird, a little intimidating but you the teacher is always nice, says hello and wishes you a nice day. That, and you know she's probably just out buying her husband a new pair of slacks. Not the stripper. The stripper doesn't buy slacks. The stripper is doing 45 minutes on the stair climber at level 15 to get her ass cheeks firm enough to pick quarters up off the ground. And then everyone starts staring too. Dudes, chicks, grandmas...all of them staring. It's like they've never seen a stripper before. I think these people assume the strippers just hang around the club all day, wearing their nipple tassels, grinding on chairs, paying their bills, without ever going home. I will admit, I stared too, but only because the chick looked like Lindsay Lohan on coke...oh wait...nevermind, she looked like Lindsay Lohan.
No comments:
Post a Comment