Strippers Vs. Providers ... who is better in bed?

Depends.

If you hook up with a stripper at the club or OTC, you're seeing a provider who's smart about marketing. As a stripper she's probably considerably more attractive than average, but also less professional, more conceited, and more likely to let her looks make up for a lackluster performance. So whether she's better or worse than a typical provider depends on your priorities - if you're an eye candy guy who's grateful for a CBJ you could be happy, but if you're a more discerning hobbyist you could very well feel ripped off, especially if a shopping trip is part of the OTC activities. A word to the wise: Avoid the Galleria at all costs.

On the other hand, if you actually date a stripper your experiences will run the gamut.

The best are outstanding - attention-craving nymphos who obsess about their appearance and want nothing more than the praise that comes from leaving you drained and shaking after an evening of the horizontal mambo. And killer eye candy.

The worst are the poster child for the crazy, unstable basket case. Attractive? Could be. But a train wreck that will drag you down with her. The second happiest day of the relationship is the day you meet her, and the happiest is the day you leave her or she finds some other poor fool to take a ride on the crazy train. Originally Posted by blowpop

I have to agree......

The allure, of these full blown crazy nuts, is crazy... ( my mind set when i was in my 20's and actually, did drag them out of the club.... I won a prize!!! an expensive prize) I have had a few that would call for some nookie, ( still do when they are broke) I had one... the one that ruined me, and made strippers my obsession for a while..... (20 years ago) that, would show up at my apartment at 3 am, telling me about all the cash she just made that night, and fuck me, like I was the last man on earth.... then leave at 6 am, when I started getting ready to go to work.

That went on for 6 months, then one day ... A week went by, I went to the club she was not there.... I started dating my wife about that time too... ( now x)

From the Trophy Club on Rankin......She worked at Chezy Paris on the same street as well....

Monica.... you out there.... lol

Crazy stripper stories. That would make a great thread.

Crazy stripper stories. That would make a great thread. Originally Posted by Molay

It would.... they are all fuggin nuts ( well most of them...)

Since many providers are strippers or former strippers, what's the difference? Originally Posted by seeker7

bingo.

There is a sticky thread in Then Lockerroom forum titled, "So You Want To Date A Stripper" : Very Funny.

While the piece deals with Off-The-Clock or non-PFP dating, I'm sure that much of it applies to strippers who also are Providers.

I have tried both and done both. Quite honestly, for me it's a draw. I don't know about you guys. Which of the 2 has been better in bed for you? Originally Posted by TheAntichrist666

I've had several strippers OTC before years ago, mainly from Colorado, Ritz, and Heartbreakers. I must say they performed a lot better with me than some of the providers I have seen throughout the years. So, even though these are my findings, I still think it still leads to if both parties have chemistry. Anyway, just saying.

L4B, I feel your pain. I dated strippers on and off for about a decade. None of these were P4P situations, although these high maintenance girls never shied away from being treated to a shopping spree.

These are my stories.

My first stripper was Bree, the tall, willowy blonde with ice blue eyes and an actual heart of gold. I hooked up with her on a bet - my buddy didn't think I could get a stripper to go out with me, and I was up for the challenge. I tipped her on stage, and when she sat down I actually got to know her, no oogling or groping at all. When I asked if she had kids her face lit up and she started to show me pictures - I knew she was interested. Didn't ask for her number but gave her my business card, and when the receptionist at work announced her call during an impromptu meeting, my status amongst the other geeks (including my buddy, who told the entire story after I got off the phone) went up significantly.

She was actually a sweetheart and minimally screwed up (by stripper standards) - we dated for a couple of months, and it was a fairly normal relationship - dinner, drinks, lots of sex. She worked at a pretty tame club in Austin - she'd call me on slow nights to be her advertising. I'd get very high mileage dances, I'd tip her with her own money, and then she'd have guys lined up for regular tame dances. Clever girl - I liked and admired her. Until the abusive ex-husband came around, and she went back to him. She actually appeared in a small role in a movie a bit later, and of course I bought the DVD.

All in all, the relationship was brief but great. I had a very hot girlfriend for a while, things ended, and I didn't realize the insanity I was in for in the future.

I concluded that I'd found the keys to the kingdom - the ability to date these gorgeous creatures, even though I wasn't famous, or rich, or a Chippendale dancer, or a drummer. It turns out that very little rocket science was involved, just some understanding of female psychology. Find out what they need, and give it to them in the right doses - large enough so they're happy, small enough so they're not satisfied and lose the need to come back for more. I was in control. I was getting what I wanted. Little did I realize the rollercoaster ride I had just signed up for.

Jamie was a cute redhead with a kid. Dancer at another club. Met her when I was hanging out and working on her friend in the club - friend was a diva and wasn't interested, but Jamie was down-to-earth and amenable. We did the IHOP-after-the-club-closes thing, which turned into a very nice night at my apartment. Jamie was a pleaser, and a lot of fun. We dated for a bit, I met her kid (nice, not screwed up at all, surprisingly) and discovered that she had more than a bit of an affinity to substance of which we should not speak here. When she was away from it for too long she became belligerent. That was enough for me; we parted on a friendly note, and I don't think she ever suspected the real reason.

Anne was another tall blonde, truly stunning. She didn't need it, but she had a bit of work done, and between that and her aerobics she had a flawless body. British accent. What impressed me about her was her obvious intelligence - I met her at a club one night when my buddy got sidetracked and never showed up. I was in a lousy mood and wouldn't play her game, but we talked for hours and I was blown away by her mind. She commuted between cities - The Men's Club was the only place she'd dance in Houston. She hated the idea of extras in the club and the guys who wanted them - I got lucky by being in a non-playing mood the night I ran into her.

In her spare time she was working on her PhD... really. I picked Anne up one day for lunch and she showed me her lab at the university. Daddy was a professor at Oxford who didn't give her enough attention, and her life was all based on getting his approval, and she didn't ever realize it. Anne loved to be spoiled, and I got very good at spoiling her - our trips through the Galleria were always in the four figure range, and twice got to five. She was superb arm candy, somewhat cool in bed, but actually a pretty good girlfriend. Then I found out she was married. "We have an arrangement" she explained. I told her I had enough, and she was furious. "No one dumps me!" she screamed and went into full psycho mode. I dodged a bullet with that one. Actually, a large knife. Didn't see that coming.

Then there was Kimberley, the petite, busty, long-haired brunette with a perfect body and who could pass for Jane Seymour's daughter. A regular at the Men's Club and Rick's (back when they were the original upscale club) she knew how to work celebs and other high rollers like no one else I'd ever seen. The original live fast girl, she got drunk most nights and wrecked her car (always a Benz or a Vette) so many times I lost count. She'd pop into my life for a few days, we'd go at it non stop until I ran out of excuses for missing work, then while I worked she'd head out and be gone for a week... or a month... or a year. I'd get calls at random times "I'm at a hotel in Zurich" "I'm on a jet leaving Tokyo" - she always knew how to snare high rollers like they were horny high school boys.

She popped up one NYE after a year-long hiatus and of course I broke all my plans to spend it with her. Car wrecks, a near-jail experience, her flashing the partygoers out of the sunroof of my car... typical night. And then poof - she's gone.

A half-decade later I ran into her at a dance club and the ride began again, much to the chagrin of the 10-years-younger redhead I was seeing. Kimberley and I had a long talk - she confessed that I was her "exit guy" for when she was ready to settle down... a point that wasn't happening yet. She had a serious BF, an executive with a computer company whose name I recognized from the news, but he was "too boring". But his money fueled her lifestyle, and she didn't have to dance unless she got bored. We partied on and off for about a month (an epic month, especially the threesome with the younger redhead that Kimberley instigated) but of course she disappeared again, which was probably for the best - she was my kryptonite.

Haven't seen or heard from her since. Lord knows what would happen if I did.

Until the abusive ex-husband came around, and she went back to him.

When she was away from it for too long she became belligerent.

I got very good at spoiling her - our trips through the Galleria were always in the four figure range, and twice got to five.

Then I found out she was married.

I dodged a bullet with that one. Actually, a large knife.



That sounds about right. Date a stripper? You will get an education in courts, law, jail, poverty, poor work performance.

I date civilians nowadays, girls who have the looks to be a stripper but don't want the lifestyle which goes with it.

The civvies are hot, I just wish they had awesome skills in bed.

Found this at: http://www.identitytheory.com/date-stripper/

So You Want to Date a Stripper?
By Greg Bruns | Published: December 11, 2000
So you got a stripper’s phone number, huh? Called her up and chatted about this and that and had a nice little conversation with her, huh? What’s her name? Cinnamon? Going out with her for lunch on Saturday, eh? Very Nice. Here are a few tips — because dating a stripper is a hazardous affair and the only thing you’re going to get out of this insane ride are bragging rights for the rest of your life. This article is based on information gleaned from my brief stay in Stripperville.
First of all, you’ve got to have a destination in mind before you embark on this venture. What do you want from the Stripper? A few fun evenings out on the town with a little hottie on your arm? Sex? Free passes to the Titty Bar where you met her? Everlasting true love? Handjob? Look — walking into this without a goal is certain means for failure, because she operates on her own terms and if you let her manipulate you and lead the show, you’re sunk. She meets 50 guys a night who are potential dates, so she’s just playing the odds with you. She’s thinking she just might meet someone who can handle her, but no one can. Trust me. No one can handle her. You’ll never change her or pull her out of Stripperville. Remember that and keep your eyes on the prize.
Several points to consider:
1. You’re not Special.
You’re one of 18 guys she’s juggling right now, and one of a hundred who witness her naked glory every night. It’s her job to make guys feel like they’re the only one she’s interested in. She gets paid handsomely for that skill. That sultry stare she’s giving you across the dinner table with those piercing green eyes is the same look that forces 75 men-a-night to fumble for their wallets and jam fistfuls of green into her G-string even though they’re six months behind on child support.
2. She makes more money than you. Get used to it.
Keep in mind that she pulls down more than most corporate attorneys (who also represent a large portion of her clientele). She’s ripping 2-5K a week tax-free, and you shouldn’t expect her to pay for anything. It’s not in her nature. Guys fawn all over her every single night and offer her stacks of crisp Benjamins in an effort to get their knobs slobbered on in the parking lot behind the club (something she’ll claim she’s never done, but the other girls at the club have — right — she’s done it at least once).
3. If you get emotionally involved with this girl, you’re in for a hurricane of pain.
Your future with this chick: broken dates, shattered windows, holes punched in doors, a slew of ex-boyfriends and husbands, a thousand "friends" calling all the time, an encyclopedia of restraining orders she has out on said exes and a couple customers who stalked her for six months. Her apartment is littered with soggy G-strings and cheap 8-inch heeled shoes, along with empty tubes of body glitter, mascara, prescription drugs, zit cream, Aqua Net and Polaroid pictures of her and her "friends" engaged in some drinking and dancing on St. Patrick’s Day last year. The Polaroid pictures of her and her stripper friends getting nasty for the entire bar are still circulating around town because one of the guys she dated last month stole them out of her nightstand when he sensed the end was near and he wasn’t going to be getting any more Cinnamon Love.
3. She has more guy friends than you had all throughout high school and college, collectively.
Sometimes they’ll just drop in when you two are hanging out and you’re thinking it might get romantic. The guy friend will ask her — right in front of you — if she wants to go to Happy Hour at the Knick Knack Paddy Whack Lounge and she’ll look at you with bright eyes and say, "Yeah — let’s go to Happy Hour with Tim here — it’ll be fun!" And you, still gripping on to that glimmer of hope for some pussy, will say yes and you’ll spend the next three hours in a simmering rage while you quaff watered-down Bud Light drafts, because she’s the most popular girl in the bar and every person with a penis in there is looking to hop on the Stripper Wagon that is blazing through Stripperville at a very unsafe speed.
All of those "guy friends" started out just like you, chief. They saw the Promised Titty Land and thought they could get there, too. Once they tired of the bullshit and drama, or she found someone else, they were relegated to "friends." They could’ve bought a fucking sailboat with all the money they blew on young Cinnamon, and now they hang on to some last vestige of hope, thinking that she may just get drunk enough some night and let them put their spit on the slit. You guys could all get together and swap the exact same stories about wasted nights, full-blown disappointment, and confused, desperate whack-off sessions when you all found out that dating a stripper is no different than trying to debate Nietzsche with a Dalmation.
4. Her life is a flurry of activity selected at random.
This stimulates her sub-par self-esteem. At 10am she will be rocketing down the freeway at 130mph on the back of some guy’s crotch rocket. By 1pm she’s already at some different guy’s house, swimming naked in the pool with him and his Great Dane named Robo. By 5pm she’s doing "X" at some other guy’s house, and from there she goes home for the five-minute shower and gets ready for work.
5. She’ll blow you off for three dates in a row.
When you keep calling, she knows she has you. That Saturday night dinner and special room you’ve secured at the fucking Ritz will be vaporized after she tells you she’s going to Mexico with some of her "friends." Her whimsical trip to Mexico will forever after be known as Cabo Wabo Orgy 2002, and you’ll likely come across some digital pix of her fellating two guys on the beach in Cabo while you’re scanning some amateur porn site on the Net.
It’s a crazy affair, for sure, but just remember these do’s and don’ts and you’ll be fine:
DON’T ever call her and not announce your name. Her phone rings more than all of the lines at the New York Times combined. Don’t put her in the precarious position of trying to guess your name. "Is it Steve? Rick? Mike? Dave? Javier? Justin? Michael? Chris? Matt? Juan? Adam? Alex? Roberto? Ed? Brian? Eugene? Tim?" She’ll make it quite clear that she has many suitors, which excites her to no end, and puts you in a bottle of bourbon all alone by 9pm that night. Try to sound upbeat: "Hi Cinnamon, this is Greg, I was just walking through Tiffany’s, looking at a $900 sterling-silver ashtray and thought of you." (She smokes. They all smoke. She’d gush over an ashtray from Tiffany’s. Don’t buy it, though. Make her think you would’ve bought it for her, if only there was a rose engraved on it.)
DON’T ask her about her fucking tattoos unless you want to look like one of her customers.
DON’T go see her at her job unless it’s absolutely necessary. A necessity would be getting her condo key so you can go feed her cat. If you get to that point, FYI, you’re now one of her "friends," and you can wrap up the sexual fantasies you have of her by beating off right on her pillow after you throw the cat some Meow Mix.
DON’T try to keep up with her. Don’t skip work to spend the day with her. She works nights and you work days. Keep your job. Her days are spent at tanning booths, Frederick’s of Hollywood and chic outdoor cafés where her and her stripper "friends" eat poached salmon salads with dressing on the side.
DO carry lots of hundreds in a money clip. Make sure she sees you strip off the bills when the dinner check comes. Or better yet, whip out the Corporate Amex and toss it on the table like you’re folding a bad poker hand. Clasp your hands behind your head and lean back into your chair after you make the Amex toss, as if to say, "See that? Unlimited credit, baby."
DO kiss her on the cheek when she shows up at your place for the nice dinner you’re going to cook her, and knock her fishnets off with your ability to handle the cuisine and wine. At some early point in the evening though, you’re going to have to find her cell phone in her purse and steal the battery out of it, because that thing will ring incessantly and she will eventually find something or someone better to do. Pull the battery or she’s going to get some call at midnight, when you’ve got the Miles Davis playing lightly in the background, and the candles illuminating the room in a soft glow and you think you’re about to "storm the beach." This call will undoubtedly be from one of her "friends" who is going to an after-hours party at some country bar and all of the sudden she’ll squeal with delight and jot down the address on her hand and say to you, "Let’s go Two-Stepping at the Country Bunker with John and Kevin!"
DO remember this: strippers are more fucked up than The Who was during their 1973 U.K. "Quadrophenia" Tour. They’re a bad lot to hang out with, because there’s so much freedom and money in Stripperville. They’ve got it all and they don’t need you or anyone else. All they need is their Xanax and Raspberry Stoli on the rocks and their job. Yeah — the job. That’s what fuels the lifestyle and you’re never going to pry her from it. Don’t even suggest it.
If your goal from the aforementioned list is "sex," you need to understand that it’s going to take at least five dates. At least. Figure $250 per date. Compound that and it’s a nice little used Hobie Cat or a decent house payment. While that fine body, devoid of tan lines, might fuel you to the fifth date, I’d recommend looking into escort services in your area. With an escort, you’re getting what you want right off the bat, and it’ll likely cost you half of what Cinnamon is charging.
Good luck in Stripperville. It’ll be a short stay, but something you’ll talk about for years to come.

Dating strippers and fu**ing strippers are two entirely different things. One is often extraordinary. The other is a like a trip through hell. If you've done them, you know which is which.

I rather Fuc@& the Stripper...