He didn’t waste any time at all, and before he had even ordered his drink he introduced himself with a cheesy smile, “Hi, I am Rob!” He was hiding his bald head under a hat — and I am not talking a manly baseball cap but a “hip” French beret — thinking it made him look important and cool. It didn’t. Within less than fifteen minutes he had told me about his dog, his two step children, his work, his wife, his weight problems, and how he used to be in great shape — yeah, yeah, blah, blah they all looked great and were fit and healthy ten years ago … but how they looked back then does not mean anything to me, nor will their sexy appearance from ten or twenty years ago turn me on today. He was obviously there to talk. One of those types that chew your ear off and expect you to listen for free. Some entitlement in his voice made me feel he thought it was my duty to listen to his shit, like I owed him to listen, advice, and encourage him. I wasn’t fazed, and I could see he was this type of man who guilt’s a woman into trying to please him. Then he noticed, “Ohhh, you guys don’t take all your clothes off. This is not a fully nude bar?” He was upset about it, again thinking it would push me into making an exception for him. I said simply, “Nope. This is a bikini bar.” Him pushy, “But what happens back there in the lap dances?” Me, “Lap dances.” Him, “Can you take your clothes off there?” Me, “Nope!” Him, “Can you make an exception.” Me not in the mood to justify nor explain the law, “Nope!” Him continuing to complain, then he went on and on about his dog and what great dry food he was feeding him — there’s no great dry dog food, it’s all crap full of roadkill, rotten meat, pressure cooked, and full of preservatives. I was called on stage. Mr. Rob watched every move I made and didn’t tip a penny.
When I stepped off the stage he expected me to go straight back to him and continue to listen to his complaining. But I took a seat far enough away from him, yet, close enough so he could see I was preferring to sit alone rather that talk to his ass. He was even more agitated and left shortly.
I won’t forget his name ever. And if he ever returns — he told me he had visited before, I guess to complain about the lack of nudity — I will greet him, “Hi Robber!” He’s a stripper Robber!

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