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The Tasteful Nude The Tasteful Nude

The Stripper Dating Diaries, Part 2

The Stripper Dating Diaries, Part 2: Hair and Makeup by Emma Parkes

Hair and Makeup by Emma Parkes

Welcome to The Tasteful Nude, in which stripper, comedian and writer Kasey Koop gives us a point-blank look at life onstage and backstage in L.A.’s strip club scene. Check back every Thursday afternoon for more.

“I don’t usually do this,” I lie, typing my number into a customer’s phone. I know this line well; it’s the same one every other dude in the club uses to explain his presence there. “I’m not a strip club guy,” they say. Sure—and I’m not a stripper. This is all just a weird coincidence.

Though I know better than to date my customers, I don’t always act accordingly. I like to make the same mistakes over and over until I get really good at them. The fact that going out with clients never goes well falls into the black hole of my memory reserved for boring people’s names. Clearly, I don’t make the best romantic choices. The fellas from “The Stripper Dating Diaries, Part 1” aren’t the only customers I’ve courted. A few others have made the transition from patron to lover, teaching both parties that the imagination is where the best fireworks happen.

Here are three more relationships that crossed over, however briefly, from strip club to IRL romance.


COCK ROCK
Unbeknownst to me, it was the last stretch of my drinking career, and naturally I was drunk at work. Spotting a handsome hipster at the end of the bar, I sauntered over. How I avoided injuring myself, intoxicated in seven-inch heels, I’ll never know. I’ve never seen a stripper fall; our shoes are like Dorothy’s ruby slippers, providing a magical shield of protection in their false confidence. The guy’s piercing eyes took me down, and any hustle I was going to spit got lost in my throat. He told me about closing out Coachella on the main stage in the band he played keyboards for. As it happened, I had seen that performance—on enough molly to consider it a spiritual experience. A typical too-cool-hipster, he thought Coachella was lame and drove back to the city immediately after finishing the set. He was a depressed drunk like me. Misery didn’t love company, but we definitely tolerated each other.

I’d go to the condo where he spent all day composing and drinking alone. We never fucked for long before passing out on separate sofas, alone together. As they do, he quit coming to the club once I started coming over and I quit coming over once I got sick of him not paying for my Uber home. I didn’t demand much, but at least be gentleman enough to pay for your stripper’s ride.

FUNNY GUY
I felt immediate familiarity with a man we’ll call Al the moment we met, possibly because he looked like two other scrawny Jewish guys I had flings with and was equally neurotic. I liked the way his anxiety made a head case like me seem chill. Crushing Al under the weight of my thunder thighs, I whispered sweet nothings in his ear—but when he asked me to hang outside work I refused. I was in a celibacy phase that accompanied my newfound sobriety. I reassured him that I would’ve fucked him a few months prior but I was a new woman: a born-again virgin/stripper! Al happened to know one of my aforementioned Jewish beaus, reminding me that L.A. guys would kill it at “Six Degrees of Kasey’s Pussy.”

I kept things to the club for the following year, selling him lap dances when he’d visit, until one night when I was exhausted and starving. Al invited me to a diner after work and I caved, slamming a chorizo burrito to his vegetarian disgust. I get a kick out of revolting guys who want me—just try jerking off to me now! We snuggled up in the booth and, when he mentioned his house and dog, the deal was sealed. After you sleep with enough skater boys, any semblance of security works as a natural lubricant.

The sex was…anticlimactic. The best part was when his adorable dog tried to cuddle up with us. Before long, we stopped seeing each other and he returned to the far more placid waters of non-stripper relationships.

THE HILLS HAVE LINES
“I don’t usually do this.” There was that line again. “My friends brought me here, but we have a house in the hills if you want to party later.” My ears perked up. House. He was gorgeous, like a young Josh Hartnett minus the Frankenstein browline. After work, I drove through the ant-tunnel roads of the Hollywood Hills until I found the place—a mansion, as it turned out. Going alone to meet young men I met at a strip joint wasn’t the safest idea, but my hubris only saw adventure. (That’s a fun way of saying I’m stupid). The place belonged to one of the dudes’ TV exec boss, and I wasted no time walking through the sliding glass wall that led to an infinity pool overlooking Los Angeles. I was still wearing my bikini from work and jumped straight in with “Josh.” We had the water to ourselves since the other guys were railing lines in the kitchen. He asked if I wanted some but I was sober; besides, the high of the surreal experience would suffice.

Josh said he was an actor, which is the LA equivalent of revealing you have an STD. He was dumb and pretty and considered himself an artist. “I want to play a tranny,” he said between long drags off his cigarette. I pulled him away to the master bedroom to shut him up. The homeowner’s room was decorated with artsy cock photos. I was home.

Still in my no-penetration phase, I let Josh go down on me while I looked out the window onto the lights of the city. Maybe I wouldn’t find my storybook romance in the strip club. But for the moment, my love affair with Los Angeles was enough.


Find more installments of the Tasteful Nude here.

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