Secrets.

I’m referring to the strip club.

Years ago, I was living with a boyfriend on Finchley Road.

Back then I considered myself very sex-positive, in fact I still do, but back then I hadn’t done much reading.

I thought I was being broad minded in offering to attend said strip club with said boyfriend as a birthday gift.

I also thought, if said boyfriend realises I am the coolest girlfriend ever then he WILL NEVER LEAVE ME.

Wrong on both counts, dear friends. Wrong on both counts.

I’ll avoid the massive rant about objectification and abuse of women in strip clubs and porn and sex-work and how it’s rarely, if ever actually, truly consensual, the women are all coerced in some way, are frequently abuse survivors and just struggling to get by.

That’s not what you’re here for. I understand. You’re here for my ridiculous personal tragedy. NOT A FUCKING LECTURE.

So. I went with said boyfriend to said strip club. We held hands and giggled nervously and watched the women. Some came over to speak to us. They were all very nice.

I then pressured my poor boyfriend to get a lap-dance so that he would know just how cool a girlfriend I was. He wasn’t fussed.

I insisted.

We picked a girl who had a similar physique to mine. She paid no attention to the boyfriend whatsover. Well, no. I mean she did give him a lap-dance and flicked her hair in his face a lot but she only spoke to me.

It’s understandable as I wept through the entire thing. AT FULL VOLUME.

My boyfriend held my hand. We went home.

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