"Stinky Cock Chronicles: The Night the Stripper Walked Out"

It was supposed to be a legendary night. A fucking celebration. I’d been grinding at work for weeks, busting my ass, and finally, I had some cash to blow. So, I did what any self-respecting man would do: I called up a stripper. Not just any stripper, though—this was Vanessa, the kind of woman who could make a priest question his vows. She had the curves of a goddess and a reputation for giving her clients a night they’d never forget. I’d heard stories. Glorious, filthy stories. And tonight, I was gonna be the star of my own fucking tale.

I booked the fanciest hotel room I could afford—some bougie suite with a king-sized bed, mood lighting, and a minibar stocked with overpriced booze. I even splurged on some champagne because, hey, if you’re gonna do it, do it right. Vanessa arrived right on time, looking like a damn dream in a tight red dress and heels that could double as weapons. She smiled at me, and I swear, my heart skipped a beat. Or maybe it was just the whiskey I’d been sipping. Either way, I was ready.

“Hey, handsome,” she purred, stepping into the room like she owned the place. “You ready to have some fun?”

“Fuck yeah,” I said, grinning like an idiot. I handed her the cash—$500 upfront, just like she’d asked. She counted it quickly, nodded, and tossed it into her purse. Then she turned to me, her eyes dark and full of promise. “Let’s get started.”

Things were going great at first. She started dancing, moving her body in ways that made my brain short-circuit. I was mesmerized. This was it. This was the fucking life. But then, something happened. Something terrible. Something that would haunt me forever.

She got closer. Too close. And that’s when it hit her.

“What the fuck is that smell?” she asked, her nose wrinkling like she’d just walked into a dumpster behind a seafood restaurant.

I froze. “What smell?”

“That fucking smell!” she snapped, backing away from me like I was radioactive. “Jesus Christ, did you shit yourself or something?”

“What? No!” I said, my face burning with embarrassment. “I don’t smell anything!”

“Bullshit!” she yelled, covering her nose with her hand. “Your dick smells like a fucking corpse! What the hell is wrong with you?”

I was mortified. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not after I’d paid her. Not after I’d been dreaming about this night for weeks. “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, trying to keep my cool. “Maybe it’s just the room or something.”

“The room?” she scoffed. “Bitch, I’ve been in some nasty-ass rooms, but this? This is next-level disgusting. I can’t do this. I’m out.”

“Wait, what?” I said, panic rising in my chest. “You can’t just leave! I already paid you!”

“And you can keep your fucking money,” she said, grabbing her purse and heading for the door. “I’m not about to risk my health for some dude who doesn’t know how to wash his dick. Peace out.”

And just like that, she was gone. I stood there, naked and humiliated, wondering how the hell my night had gone so wrong. I sniffed the air, trying to figure out what she was talking about. And then I smelled it. Oh God, I smelled it. It was like a mix of rotting fish and sweaty gym socks. My dick was the fucking source. How had I not noticed before?

I rushed to the bathroom, scrubbing myself raw with soap and water, but the smell wouldn’t go away. It was like it had seeped into my skin, a permanent reminder of my failure. I poured half a bottle of cologne on myself, but it only made things worse. Now I smelled like a rotting corpse that had been doused in Axe body spray.

I spent the rest of the night alone in that hotel room, drowning my sorrows in overpriced whiskey and regret. The next morning, I went straight to the doctor, who diagnosed me with some kind of bacterial infection. “It’s common,” he said, like that was supposed to make me feel better. “Just keep the area clean and use this medicated cream.”

Common? Fucking common? Tell that to Vanessa, who probably told all her stripper friends about the guy with the stinky cock. I’ll never live this down. Never.

So here’s the lesson, folks: wash your damn dick. And if you’re gonna hire a stripper, maybe do a sniff test first. Trust me, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Because nothing kills the mood faster than the smell of death emanating from your crotch.