Fucking Day: How to Date a Stripper... With NO Money Down! (Patreon)

Have you ever wondered how you could get your own sex worker without paying them? Like a How To guide for getting a topless… intern? Indentured lap servant? No, I'm making it sound evil. What I mean is, you can use social engineering and deceit for some light sex trafficking. Man, I wish there was a cute way to put that…

Oh, that's perfect. In 2012, everyone's wingman, D.P. Sala, self-published HOW TO DATE A STRIPPER… WITH NO MONEY DOWN!. It was widely ignored by a very suspecting public, and at first glance you'll see why. He is not a good writer. He opens his book with the story of growing up and becoming a sales rep, and good luck staying awake through it. This is the first guide to slamming unlimited glittered birth canals FOR FREE (and with your actual penis!!) that begins with the author confessing to being the world's most boring nerd. I clipped it, but don't bother reading this:

You know how I would start my book about banging strippers? I'd say, "They call me Penetrator Dragon, and if you dance for money, I've been inside you; you're welcome. I'm writing this from a moaning mass of human furniture I call a normal night. Let's begin with tip #1: The Perfect Handshake." This motherfucker talks for three pages about his regional sales awards like someone asked him what would make him a valuable member of the Quiznos team.

D.P. claims to be a pussy slayer with all the wealth of the nation's top pharmaceutical rep, and I usually trust books about hunting sex workers, but I have some doubts. For instance, the first TWENTY FOUR pages are dedicated to the logistics of running a strip club. Hourly rates, tipping protocols, cancellation policies… I'm not saying it's useless to a reader anxious to take their boner into public. I'm saying it's useless to every living person who isn't a juice bar shift manager operating within the same county codes as the author. Another suspicious thing this super rich man does is get fucking dazzled by his own napkin math when he calculates how much a modest strip club must be taking in.

I mean, can you imagine!? Three thousand dollars a night. Before paying your lease or employees? Or your utilities and licensing fees? Why after maintenance, marketing, and a few fees we shouldn't talk about, that's still so much goddamn money, thinks this man who is definitely the country's top pharma rep.

Another thing you might not have expected when you read the title How to Date a Stripper… With NO Money Down!, is that the author is a real piece of shit. But he is! Here he is answering the classic strip club question, "Why are so many of these naked ladies useless, disgusting hogs?"

Like all things, this issue is complicated. Sometimes there are ugly girls so amateur lap dancees can "practice" on them. You get it. You need to spill your seed in the minor leagues before your unwanted erection is ready for the Big Leagues of a regular girl. And occasionally hags are nude because "some men prefer girls with missing teeth." D.P. doesn't cite any studies or interviews here, but it feels true. It's probably only a coincidence these facts line up with what a very stupid and terrible person's first guess would be.

So now that we've answered why there are fewer teeth than we were expecting, it's time to get into the detailed licensing agreements between exotic dancers and the club. And so there's no misunderstanding, I'm serious. I know you wanted to get this wet and poking, but these are urgent matters D.P. Sala needs to clear up before the seduction can begin.

This section brings up another good point: these guys are raking it in. Think of all the money you could make if you had your own strip club with ALL TARDY NUDE LADIES. God, seriously, fuck, can you imagine!? No really, think: if five girls are late, D.P. says that's "an extra hundred bucks in fees." That's basically like not paying your men's room attendant for two hours. When I hear shit like that, I turn to the squarest person at my wife's work party and say, in perfect harmony with them, "Um, sounds like I am in the wrong business!"

By the way, ass crushing studs, our orientation still isn't done. We still need to learn how the boss of these ladies we're about to seduce pays his DJs, bouncers, and cooks. Again, to make sure there's no misunderstanding, I am serious.

I was not expecting the hot tip of falling in love with the strip club's DJ. A lot of pickup artist guides come across as dishonest, but this seems real. The author definitely thinks of the DJ at his local strip club as his best friend. And the strip club DJ character appears a lot in this book. He might appear more often than the strip club dancers. He's a great source of information which, hopefully, will blossom into something more. He's so great, the DJ. He charges "pretty reasonable" rates, is every strip club's "biggest expense," and both those things fit comfortably into the same paragraph. He is my everything.

Okay, enough fucking around, nude lady slayers. Let's! Talk! Coupons! At this point I shouldn't have to say it, but I am quite serious: let's talk coupons.

This also seems true to me. The same way I believe the author's best friend is a man trapped in a box near the sex workers ignoring him, I also believe D.P. Sala invested in a savings program to reduce the cost of going to the strip club 78 times from $546 to $100 (I did the math!). I love the idea of someone buying this book with sincerity. They open it, hoping for some pickup lines or discreet choke holds and they get this: a grandfather explaining discount codes for an entire page with the promise to "explain this in more detail in the Testimonials section." That means later, when he's listing his poontang conquests, it's going to be more coupons!

You're almost ready for the ladies, but they're still ready for you. So let's go over some more intel gathering tips.

A lot of broken down strippers become bartenders. And like the DJs, they are locked in a place where they can't leave you. This makes them a great source of friendship. And information. Ask them about the dancers, and listen carefully because each of them is a unique individual requiring specific tactics. Okay, great, now let's go over the only six kinds of strippers.

The Rookie is your ideal target because she doesn't yet know the darkness inside all men. Just tell the bartender you want "the usual," which is not a drink, but her insider tips on which topless dancer is least prepared for you. And then you grope the unprepared girl, an entirely novel thing she will think you invented.

The Prostitute is like a normal stripper, only more dangerous. The most dangerous, absolutely. I'm not sure what D.P. means by that, but it's normal for an author to project their own personality onto their characters. It's why A Song of Ice and Fire is mostly food menus. It's why Ready Player One is about a nerd who thinks his sad dick is doing an ugly girl a favor. It's why all my magazine subscriptions are addressed to a man named Diaper Fetish, DDS. I guess what I'm getting at is these women are not safe, and in a form of expression as vulnerable as instructive stripper fucking literature, the author can't hide it. I worry this is getting too dark. Let's lighten things up by getting back to the 6 Wacky Characters You Always Run Into at the Strip Club.

Oh, fuck. That didn't help at all. In fact, this menacing shadow is starting to feel familiar. This wouldn't be the first time I started reading a book about picking up topless dancers only to discover it was written under a pen name by sex pest all-star Don Diebel. He also starts his stripper guides with a contemptuous list of all the shitty women you're hunting. But no. No, it can't be. It's… no. Only… just to be sure, let's compare D.P. Sala's tips on seducing "The Junkie" with Diebel's advice for "High & Loaded Dancers."

From the 1996 classic, How To Pick Up Topless Dancers by Don Diebel writing as "Derek Evans":

If you look carefully, very closely, you can see the subtle difference between the authors. D.P. Sala invests years grooming a bartender to be a criminal informant, and Don Diebel checks if you're unconscious by shouting, "Show me your bush!" The authors have similar goals, but they are different men. I'm 40% sure.

One thing you should know before you start dating strippers is that they suck. They think they are going to do all these things with their lives, but look at them. Psh. Ladies, I admit your missing teeth might have some appeal, but you're never going to be anything other than nude. You're never going to go to Europe, Asia. I'm putting this in my book about how to date you, Asia, and since I gave you forty dollars you have to stay here for the whole song. Checkmate. Read the letters on my coupon, junkie: "V. I. P." … is what I would have said if their stupid ATM machine worked with my bank and they didn't make me go home.

The author is a student of the human condition, so he's able to take in and process information in ways most people can't. For example, a stripper told him she was broke. And yet -and yet- that same stripper told another stripper she had, get this, two hundred dollars. Most people would hear these conflicting accounts and die on the spot from lethal confusion. Only D.P. Sala can mine the nugget of truth from this vein of chaos– he has decided the real story is a new, third thing about a purse full of money the stripper forgot about because she was on brain-erasing drugs. You get it, demon visitor; it's like when a girl ignores you because everyone is robots.

Watch out for The Businesswoman, fellas! Like The Prostitute, she's also dangerous… uh to your bank account!

Let's move on to Part III where author D.P. Sala explains the mind of a stripper, the garbage person we're rebuilding our life to pursue and be with.

These stupid dumb idiots, you wouldn't believe how dumb they are. Let author D.P. Sala tell you about this one time when he and his friend called a stripper a whore and she said, "Nuh uh," but then it turned out she actually received several lavish gifts from a regular client. Um, completely delusional much, Asia!? You whore! You're only in this sex work for the money when you have top sales representatives, actual V.I.P. members, willing to give their entire penis to you for nothing. This outrage leaves us only one choice! More of the same, but with lower standards! Let me explain!

D.P. uses the "[positive adjective] stripper is an oxymoron" line several times. First, because it's always funny. Second, because they are terrible people, worse than trash, and if we follow his instructions we'll be able to date one some day. First, we're going to find one unappealing enough that no one is willing to pay her. If this doesn't work, we'll find a less hot one in a smaller town. And if that still doesn't work, that junkie cow probably has a boyfriend. But the joke's on her because there are always less hot girls in less desirable locations. This advice is incredible. We are learning so much from this book. I hope it never turns depressingly introspective.

Along the way, while trying to think of ways to exploit the trust issues of women to get sex, D.P. Sala accidentally put himself in their shoes. He thought about what it would be like to get probed for weaknesses by handsy perverts and then trailed off in sadness. No point was made. The author was simply crushed by his sudden understanding of how awful it would be to meet him, dozens of times every night. We really are learning so much from this book, and I'm not being sarcastic this time.

You can't smear five pages of knowledge across 130 pages of book without revealing too much about yourself. And it's in this section where the author accidentally reveals he's not some young stud having fun. He is an aging bachelor coping with most of a lifetime's worth of loneliness.

Naked ladies, you don't want some clumsy 21-year-old with his unswollen prostate and throbbing erection. Awful. You prefer older men, who can take you or leave you, who will never fall in love with you, they promise, you don't even have to worry about it. Isn't that what it's all about, reader? Being old and having unsafe sex with these low-rent, delusional drug addicts? Oh no, the sadness, it returns.

Giggle, enough downer talk! Let's get to the "lighter" side of sex work.

Gulp.

Alright, but with this upsetting knowledge, I think we're officially ready to get started dating a stripper, the pinnacle of human relationships. But How to Date a Stripper… With NO Money Down! isn't structured very well, so we have a few more fussy details to go over.

Strippers are lazy deadbeats sent here by trauma to get revenge on men, but they are also driven by a fire inside them to be the best. And it's this spirit of competition, along with knowledge of her favorite music, along with knowledge of her favorite cocaine, we're going to use against her. We did the work to get her to love us, now we're going to do the same to a different stripper to get the first stripper jealous enough to love us more. But be careful! She might be…

Banging the Boss is a complicated concept. See, a strip club owner, at all times, also owns one of the strippers. I'm not sure I understand it fully, but stripper expert D.P. Sala explains it like this: she makes love to her boss and he trades her presents for it. You don't need to know exactly how it works, but you need to be able to identify her because she is immune to jealousy damage. In fact, there are a lot of ways jealousy can backfire if you are having sex with more than zero of your girlfriend's co-workers. Let's talk about some.

You don't own every woman you sleep with. You're not a small town strip club co-manager. If you can't go back to paying for your girlfriend's lapdances like a normal customer the next day, you'll set yourself back six months and oh my god did the author of this pickup guide just say "set yourself back six months?" We are courting these strippers for -at least- half a fucking goddamn year!? You could get laid faster if you were a Mormon 10th grader. "Set yourself back six months" is the most hauntingly insane thing I've ever read. This isn't a guide to picking up girls, it is a guide to moving your entire life into the strip bar and guilelessly trying to pork your friend group. And we haven't learned a single move yet.

Ha ha so D.P. Sala's first actionable pickup advice is to get your mouth on her by any means and count on her gender's inherent lack of restraint? That well-known feminine quality of being unable to resist the denture cream of middle-aged strip club regulars? Amazing. Breathtaking. And in the very next sentence, without a pause or page break, the writer of that fantasy says, "You don't want to come across as desperate or pathetic." The only thing that could make this book better would be if it started directly contradicting itself. But there have only been, like, three tips. How could it possibly do that?

Yes! YES!!

Oh no, it's all coming apart. The author is now saying reputations, the things you spend at least six months developing, don't matter? And also making out only works on high schoolers? That's everything! I'm not being a dick when I say D.P. Sala has talked himself out of literally every point he's made so far. What's next? Are dancers suddenly classy and accountable?

No, if there's one consistent theme in How to Date a Stripper… With NO Money Down!, it's that women are the fucking worst, especially if they're naked. You know what? This is such a singular obsession I want to revisit the theory I had earlier about this author's true identity. Let me find the Filthy, Unaccountable Harlots section of Diebel's stripper book and see how they line up.

Again, from the 1996 classic, How To Pick Up Topless Dancers by Don Diebel writing as "Derek Evans":

Damn, that's pretty close. I'm down to 30% sure. I'd better do some online research.

Okay, I found D.P.'s abandoned Twitter account where he posted hundreds of personal victories to his fan base of none. I'm still not being a dick when I say, over the course of several years, he never got a like. Not one. He signed his book deal in May of 2012, and maybe I'm being a dick now, but you don't really call it a "book deal" when you pay a self-publishing service to fill your garage with anti-woman manifestos. But I am more certain this isn't Don Diebel. Don Diebel's social media is quotes from books he wrote in the '80s copy-and-pasted by a Sri Lankan click farmer. He doesn't post original ideas like "please buy my stolen goods" or, and I quote, "guys don't want to fuck fatties! :)". D.P. Sala is the real deal. A genuine, fully criminal dirtbag.

I also found an adorable video he posted on YouTube to market the book, edited to look like a little film trailer. It claims you'll be able "to take home and bed strippers with ease!" which we now know means "gathering intelligence from multiple sources over one human lifespan of undercover work in order to have some untrustworthy meth head stand you up for brunch."

It's terrible, and like his book, I'm the first person to look at it. Plus, according to Google, it's lying about winning the best "how-to" book award of 2012. But what's great about the trailer is at the end, amid the zany joke credits like "Casting by: Christian Grey,", it says "Executive Producer: DARK PRINCE."

Which means, holy fucking shit, does the D.P. in D.P. Sala stand for fucking "Dark Prince"!? That's like finding out your fingerblasting coach has a second job as your little brother's dungeon master. As a man making fun of him, I have never been so happy. And as a man with one foot still in reality, I have never been so relieved. I was worried I'd come across the secret confession of The Dayshift Strangler, but no, this is the impotent daydream of Dark Prince, Eighteen Thousandth of His Name, Defender of Inadequate Gratuity, the sole member of Slut Dan's Pantsless Speakeasy Premiere Membership Program.

Let's get back to the book! Give us your shadowy wisdom, Dark Prince, who works in sales and has been to 38 of the 50 states!

This isn't bad advice. Keep your mean comments to yourself at the strip bar. These garbage women already feel bad enough living these garbage lives you're desperately trying to infiltrate. Let's hear how our Dark Prince came to know this forbidden knowledge.

So this advice comes from the time his friend was mean to a group of strippers and it undid the months of blowjob progress Dark Prince had made. But come on. Nobody is this clueless. Nobody hates women this much. This has to be a bit. Let's go back on his Twitter and see if we can figure this D.P. out.

This doesn't help. This is… I don't know what this is. This tip isn't in the book, so I don't know what the context could be. Does he think asking a stripper to sit by you is disarming? Like she's going to say, "I'm a little nervous… I've never met a real life strip bar customer before, mister! Do you like jurr… juggle? I c-can juggling!"

Let's go back a few months and see some more.

Okay, I'm starting to understand him better. His brain was put in upside down. "My dear, why don't I… heh, dance for you?" Well played, Dark Prince. A masterful riposte. But shouldn't your social media have more sexual conquests? Ah, never mind, I found one. A mere 25 months later:

If you wanted proof this guy was scoring with strippers, I can't imagine more concrete evidence than a photo of the back of a woman by herself in a CVS, taken from ten feet away, unaware she's being followed. When's the wedding👰💒, you two? 😜 #SaveIndia #TheVoice #BlakeShelton #BlakeShelton #BlakeShelton

I still can't tell which of his lies are lies and which of his lies are jokes. Let me see if I can find a funny one to help us calibrate.

Okay, here we go! An honest attempt at a real joke! Unless… hold on, let me check something.

Yeah, it's as I feared. Not only does this joke date back to the invention of the saline implant, it was posted, possibly as a joke, by an account called "First Joke" five weeks earlier. This is shameful. I'm worried it's only going to make it harder for him to get his photo removed from The Gilded Mound's wall of Known Masturbators. So in order to protect our Dark Prince's reputation, let's get back to the carefully curated writing of his book.

Oh. Oh no. I don't like how the author of this exotic dancer stalking book mentions the importance of "appearing" safe. He puts it that way twice. I don't think it's how a person, around whom strippers were safe, would frame this discussion. I do think making a woman feel safe is great advice for struggling virgins creaming the inside of their best slacks, but "you cannot appear unsafe" is a troubling way to word it. I came here to get 100% off all prostitutes and you're saying shit like, "You must wear the mask of innocence, shroud your intent behind a cloak of harmlessness at all times! And never, minotaur, boast of your kills! Hiss, for her missing colleagues are a dryer of panties! Though they will be moist soon enough, hiss, when she sees us with Asia."

This is a little bit scary. I'm going to go through his Twitter again and see how serious we should take this maniac.

Right.

Okay, I'll make a note to send my copy of How to Date a Stripper… With NO Money Down! to the FBI after this. And I'll be on my best behavior since this article will probably be cited as a key piece of evidence in the Case of the Bloomington Milf Biter.

D.ark P.rince Sala mentioned earlier how you can become close with the D.J. and bartender, but the bouncer also has to stay in one spot all night. And what is a friend other than a strip club employee who can't physically get away from you?

So once you've laid the groundwork for your seduction, leaving your old life behind and aging several years here in this strip club, there is a thing all chick hounds need to learn how to avoid. It's a problem built into every woman and when they work together it starts to synchronize, plaguing all of them around the same time every month…

… I'm of course talking about the time of the month when women need money. It's a deadly trap for any horny nuisance unwilling to pay them, and you mustn't fall into it. Oh! You know what we've forgotten to go over? How great it is being old, reader! You and me, book's intended audience, we're not like those awful 21-year-olds!

Sure, the 21-year-olds have abs and lives ahead of them, but here's what we have, reader: "more practice at getting rejected." Strippers will smell that on us, we can't hide it, trust me. And they'll love it.

This might be the first manuscript wept directly into a mirror. It sounds like something an Amazon Echo would record after you told your empty apartment, "Aarrgh! Alexa wrote down the wrong number again! Irresponsible! Unaccountable!" Sorry, I'm forcing this bit, and I know the FBI is reading. I'll get back to the author's thoughts on rejection so the state has them on record.

If the women keep laughing at you, that's fine, because every one of them was a lesbian, and you knew it. I think we can skip roasting this one. The author, our little Dark Prince, has already done more than enough to annihilate himself here. Let's focus on something new… something we haven't gone over yet.

You can use jealousy against strippers!

Dark Prince shares an extremely true story about the time he played this seductive game with a "primo dancer." Despite carefully proving himself to be cool, normal, and regular, his words, she simply would not give him sex work for free. That is until she saw him getting sex work for free from an uglier dancer. Then, like a vampire to uncounted grains of rice, she could not resist the allure of competition. It really is that simple. If you can convince the ugliest shirtless lady to rub on your lap, the Olympic spirit burning in every stripper's soul will start a cutthroat elimination tournament until several decades later the most beautiful one takes home the trophy of You. And no money.

We're late in the book now, and despite including several sections on rejection and a bitterness you only get from sixty years of over-the-jeans edging, Dark Prince takes a moment to reflect on his true life of unlimited and affordable stripper sex.

Guys, you don't get it. The author has had sex with so many exotic dancers by this point he doesn't even bother with the normal stuff. "I've been here every night for 27 years, Asia. I'm THE Dark Prince, multiple time V.I.P., and best friends with every DJ since Boondock Saints Tony. You either fullsex all-the-way me in the toilet free of charge or take a walk, because I've seen it all before, and Trench Wendy already gave me a soft yes for bowling."

We've learned a lot, but Dark Prince has one last tip to help you out. Listen closely because it's wild: strippers are competi– oh, fuck this bit. There's an actual sex story on the next page!

Wow, he bailed on the sex story because his "mom will read this!" What is this final bridge he refuses to cross? If he described every inch of Star's knife fighting scars while he fed her her hepatitis C pills it would not be any filthier than the rest of this book. This is the fake life story of a retired sex pest whose greatest accomplishment was lapdance vagrancy. The last thing he hears will be a nurse asking him why his emergency contact is a plant nursery and he'll die realizing the weekend bouncer at Jake's Fine Titties gave him a fake number. Again, sorry to the FBI agents reading this. Sometimes I start an insult and it sprawls far beyond the capacity of a punchline. The point is: in 2012, this sad fucker had a mother who was still alive. Which means he couldn't even get his mom to like one of his tweets! Fuck.

And sorry one last time, FBI, I thought he was done. He has one last tip.

Don't worry about your reputation. These girls don't remember shit and none of their DJs ever show up to your birthday.

Dark Prince wraps up whatever investigators decide this was with a story about the time he went to a club and invented the idea of lying to strippers. It's pretty incredible. He told them he was a pornographer on a scouting trip, which is maybe the oldest lie in the oldest profession, and he is so proud of himself for it. The story, according to the author (a known and obvious liar), was that he had a vanity license plate of his favorite pornography company. I actually believe that part of the story. What I don't believe is that a group of strippers went out to a customer's car with him to verify he was a pornographer so they could trade sex for a potential chance at future sex work. And yet here I am, holding a book claiming this.

In conclusion, the sex life the author imagined all these years while strippers asked him to make room for paying customers might seem glamorous, but be warned: it could ruin conventional women for you. And normal, trustworthy girls, put down your boring, vanilla bullshit for a second and listen: you knew what you were getting into when our mouths touched and the dam holding back your desire shattered. You need to accept our past. We earned our reputation as pole dance hustlers in the urinals and smoking sections of our nation's worst gentleman's clubs, but reputation doesn't matter. Reputation is very important. Reputation isn't something anyone cares about. In conclusion, we are nothing more than the legacy we leave behind, which you don't need to worry about.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Toasty God, the hardboiled detective who just matched up the bite complaints of 72 MILFs to the sales conference schedule of a certain pharmaceutical rep. 

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