D ear Christy,
I started dating a stripper. Oh, and I didn’t meet her there. She seems pretty cool and down to earth, but my female friends think it’s a terrible idea! Is this going to turn out as badly as they think it will?
–Not stopping at the Bustop
Pole dating:
If Dixie’s cups are bringing home her bacon via dolla, dolla bills, y’all — and you aren’t bothered by the fact that her tits and ass pay her rent — then screw your friends. (Not your stripper’s way. Your prude pals shock — in more ways than one.)
Granted, a job does reveal some distinct marks of our own selves, but often a job is only a temporary tramp-stamp on the road to the main event.
(Please tell me the main event is a circus of whiskey with one free liver repair.)
Are you stable enough to date a woman whose naked body is constantly eye-humped like a two-bit floozy? (Floozy. I’m bringing that word back.)
What about when she rubs her dental-flossed ass up and down another dude’s rod that’s merely veiled by a thin layer of jorts? (Let’s pretend we’re in the South.)
If you answered “no” to these questions, then say “yes” to this one:
If she wants to strip for life, will you be OK with that?
Too bad! It was common knowledge going in. (Also, in more ways than one.)
What are you looking for? A date? A dance? A relationship? A date that turns into a dance with a relationship on top? Fantasies of bend-y Gumby and Pokey positions?
You would.
Well heed: Many people don’t take their work home with them. If you’re in search of a grand finale of floating dollar bills via queef, just beware. She may be that girl who leaves her g-string at the office.
Good talk.
Dear Christy,
I started seeing this guy who lives in Denver, and things are great except that during the week when I don’t see him, he only texts me. We’ve been doing this for a couple of months. I feel like we’re at a point where I deserve phone calls in the evening, not just texts. Why can’t he give me a ring?
–Tired of texting
Sext-a-licious
As of Monday, the word “sext” made it to the dictionary. Hooray. Exclamation point.
That’s neat.
Past experience produced telltale dude signs that I’ve collected and stored with my stale croutons: No. 1, boys don’t like to talk on the phone. No. 2, if a dude is really into a chick, he will call her.
You do deserve phone calls, but you have to express this to him — which brings us to No. 3, dudes can’t — and wouldn’t, regardless — read our minds. We’d have to send in a bloody rescue team to Jaws-of-Life the bastards out of the fetal position.
Dudes, us girls need to hear your sweet dude speak perversions out loud.
But ladies, we need to tell them you want to talk on the phone at times. If he thinks this is high maintenance, then tell him to wait for the high-maintenance surprise in your pants.
Then you can wipe your forehead off with a large “whew” after he bolts.
