ChippenDon't

This afternoon I accompanied a good friend to a big bridal expo (she's already found love in 2011 and is getting all gussied up to sign up for a lifetime of indentured servitude). I went along for research purposes: if I want to get love, I need to see what love looks like.

Evidently love looks like a bunch of seemingly intelligent women who are perfectly ok with going into bankruptcy for overpriced photos, dresses, flowers and dry chicken, but I digress.

While I was at said expo, I struck up a conversation with a cute white guy with an overabundance of energy and a penchant for gyrating his hips every time he heard an eight count. He was working one of the booths and very friendly. My girlfriend walked away to look at cupcakes shaped like hearts, leaving me with the man with boyish charm and dashing good looks that sparked small glitterkisses from tiny fairies every time he smiled. Anywho, he and I struck up a seemingly insignifigant conversation while I waited for my friend to return.

As I was talking, Mr. Boy-Next-Door-for-Women-over-35 maintained a steady hip gyrate and kept kissing my right hand. After about 20 minutes of such foolishness, he says,

"So, can I have your number?"

Which prompts me to ask, "Are you being serious?"

So here's the deal. He's a stripper. And, a stripper for a very well-known group of dancers. The kind of stripper women squeal over and toss their bras on stage for. The kind of stripper that stays on retainer for sorority parties. The kind of stripper who owns velcro leather pants for easy removal.

Great.

But, maintaining my own rules, I say "sure." and give him the digits.

So here's the deal. I'm intrigued. But, I have about a 10% return rate for numbers given out versus men who call.

Could love be lurking around the corner of an episode of Pantsoff Danceoff? We shall see.

Evelyn Parkside