2001-08-27 4:02 p.m. So.... umm.... yeah... I'm dreaming about strippers now. Not that I'm overly concerned about this. If I have to have a mildly sexual dream, I'd rather it involve strippers than, say, my nuns from Catholic School. Or a walrus. (I know, I know, semantics) But yeah. Last night: my comfy bed, my dreams, my strippers. Somehow I think I was in this strip club by myself, which is vaguely disturbing on some level, and had a big ol' hunk of cash to burn through. The strippers knew this (as good strippers should) and I was surounded by all kinds of naked, writhing, pretty, naked, writhing, naked, naked, pretty, naked,... I'm sorry. Where was I? Oh yeah. The attention. From the girls-with-the-lack-of-appropriate-clothing. So they're all grinding on me, and they're all really nice and really naked, but one of them just stood out. She could have won the nobel prize if the nobel prize was awarded for nudity and not for, you know, peace. So she makes her way to the head of the herd (flock? gaggle?) and tells me that she wants to take me upstairs. I silently weigh the pros (naked stripper sex) and the cons (no naked stripper sex) and within a tenthof a second agree that, yeah, upstairs might be ok since I don't have anything better going on. (Read: ohyesohyesohbohboyican'tbelievemygoodluck!) So she takes me upstairs, and I start to realize that it's not me she wants, it's my good friend Benji-mofo Franklin. Dickhead. Remember that movie where the guy and the girl are in the hot tub that's shaped like a champagne glass? (no, me neither really) That's where she took us. So we're extremly hot and she's still extremely naked (and I guess I am too by this point) and I'm four shades of depressed that she doesn't want me. Because I'm an idiot in my dreams and it took me this long to realize that strippers are motivated by...wait for it...cash! But here comes the twist. She starts telling me that I'm probably upset (yeah.) because strippers are normally motivated only by cash (Yeah.) and that she can tell I like her (Yeah!) and that I'm worried that her attention toward me is motivated by the kiz-ash (YEAH!) but not to worry because she sees something in me that she finds irresistable (yee-aaah!!!) And I guess by that point I was won over. My stripper, who I thought was just another selfish money grubber, had taught me something. She was a stripper with a heart of gold. We were happy, we were naked, we were in a giant champagne flute. And then we made wild monkey love. downtown----uptown leave me a note, fool!

designed by mocksie. brought to you by diaryland.