There’s all kinds of strippers: strippers with piercings, strippers with tattoos, even strippers who have neither piercings or tattoos. There are strippers who are missing limbs, strippers who have cesarian scars. There are strippers who once knew true love and then lost it and strippers who go to sleep at night dreaming of it still.
There are very few strippers who know true love right now, but you’re one of them.
Every day you get up on stage to have bunched up dollar bills thrown at you (just how you like it) and men leer and jeer at you. Then you get off stage to find your life love standing there, tall and too-skinny in big thick framed glasses and his mouth constantly changing shape, shifting as if his brain is moving too fast from thought to thought for his face to catch up.
“Ilovedwatchingyoudance,” he’ll tell you in one rapid fire spurt.
“Thanks sugah,” you’ll say to him, leaning over to embrace him. He’ll squirm at your touch, but that’ll be normal. He’ll push you away after a few seconds and then blink at you. Once. Twice. Then a pause. Then the pattern will repeat itself.
“Iwannatakeyouhometomeetmymom,” he’ll tell his shoes.
Your heart will swell (metaphorically – if it were to actually swell you’d die, you’ve got a really weak heart) and you’ll grab his hand, tears welling in your eyes.
“I’d love to,” you’ll drawl at him, kissing him chastely on the cheek before he takes you out to the parking lot to his windowless, unmarked white van.
Later on, as you eat dinner at a table with him and the stuffed corpse of his mother, you’ll realize something is probably wrong. But during that car ride you’ll be happy as a clam, which means you’ll die pretty close to being happy early tomorrow morning. The details of your death cannot be disclosed here for legal reasons.
Congratulations Obese Stripper!
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