Her name was Lola...

My ex is dating a stripper. Like a real one. A lady of the evening who takes her clothes off and shoves her noombies in the faces of paying clients. Now, there are two tangents that I could possibly take this on:

1. The piteous self-loathing this inevitably causes me as I face the stark realisation that I will never have a stripper body, no matter how many trendy new eating disorders I adopt; and from this the gag-inducing understanding that stripper fit body = great sex for the ex. I think I just died a little inside.

2. The hilarity that ensued when he told me. I mean, come on, even by his own admission, dating a stripper is like driving a Vespa: fun until your friends find out. When she texted him to ask why he was running late for their lunch date, it was humanly impossible to avoid the obvious “tell her to keep her panties on” line.

Yes, I think we’ll stick with number 2 (that doesn’t sound right…).
It’s probably a good idea to explain that my ex also happens to be my best friend. Cue derisive jeering and condescending head pats while you look at me with pity and lament my obvious naivety. Honestly, I don’t have the will or the inclination (or your interest, I’m sure) to explain it so I won’t.

So back to humiliating him on a public platform; the obvious problems with dating a stripper are the tedious working hours – she apparently only has Sundays off. Because that’s when the good patrons of the stripping community are at church. Obviously. So the frolicking and chandelier swinging can only be conducted once a week as she actually lives in the strip-club owned ‘stripper house’ where no men are allowed. I envisage a Playboy Mansion style home where giggly, busty blondes cavort in fountains of champagne and hobbies include rubbing suntan oil all over each other and nipple-tweak tag.

Hmm, maybe I’ve been watching too much late-night e-tv…