Assumption: No woman gets turned on by your average male stripper.
Picture this. You’re at your bachelorette party, having some cocktails (emphasis on the first half of the word, of course) and this guy walks in
…followed by these guys:
And they all grind against you like some gorgeous, muscly silk worms that failed ballet classes. My favourite part is when they take their clothes off, because the clothes are usually so tacky and hideous that I can’t wait to get them out of my sight.
For my bachelorette party I do want a stripper. Yes please. But I want him my way. In my wildest fantasy, he comes into my flat. Shirtless. Carrying furniture. I’m sitting on a chair and I say “Place it there. More towards the right. No, that’s too much. More to the left. Actually no, go back”. After he completes this task without being out of breath for even a second, he puts on some Barry White and starts fixing shit around the house. His lip bite is sexually synchronised with the motions of the wrench. When he’s done opening all the jars (even that impossible-to-open honey one in the back of the cupboard), he approaches me from behind and whispers into my ear “Your future husband’s ex is so ugly. I would never open a jar for her, not even the door.”
Finally, when he leaves he also takes the trash out. And I will tip him generously only if he replaces the bin bag.