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  • Robert Farago

How to Hypnotize a Stripper

I haven’t done hypnosis professionally for at least a decade. But I still do it. In bars. It’s not what you think…

I don’t use hypnosis to show off or rewrite the rules of attraction in my favor. I could – but I can’t.

As soon as I start hypnotizing someone, I’m overtaken by an inviolable sense of responsibility.

Moral? Spiritual? Paternal? Legal? That too.

It’s not a choice. Not after hypnotizing thousands of people who depended on me to fix something they were desperate to fix. Phobia, weight loss, smoking, insomnia, you name it. But above all, confidence.

You’d be amazed how many people go through life unable to be the calm, confident and relaxed person they want to be. I reckon most people answer to that description – no matter how successful they seem.

Usually, there’s trauma involved. Trauma they reveal via the easiest investigative technique there is: ask. I know what to ask, I’m not afraid of asking and they can tell I care. Because I do.

Beautiful women are no exception to the rule. No surprise: those are the subjects my male companions want me to hypnotize.

Once I’ve been volunteered to do my thing, it takes me a couple of minutes to identify what the subject wants fixed and how it came to be broken.

From there, I do a simple hypnotic test. If they fail, I’m out. If they don’t, I do the work, usually speaking into their ear from a foot away to overcome background noise and maintain privacy.

Sometimes I erase trauma. “If you know it’s time to move on, nod your head gently yes. Good. In a moment, I’ll count to three and all the negativity associated with X will be gone forever.” Or, in some cases, the memory itself.

Sometimes it’s just a simple command. “You will be calm, confident and relaxed whenever you…”

More often than not, I succeed. How do I know? I implant an associative post-hypnotic suggestion (APHS). Something like “Every time I tug my earlobe, you say the word banana.”

If they say “banana,” I tell them to try not to say it. If they can’t resist, I know I’ve accessed their subconscious mind.

If they don’t say banana, I can still hope something “stuck.” I’m only giving positive suggestions, so they’re no worse off than before. Maybe better.

Occasionally I’ll hypnotize someone with a problem I can test, right then and there. Like the stripper at the Red Rose.

Here’s how that went down…

Jake (not his real name) and I were in Habana House, smoking cigars. He suggested filming a series of videos for social media, hypnotizing strippers.

Jake is entirely comfortable in strip clubs. I find them degrading. Not necessarily to the women. To the men. And myself.

Still, I liked the idea of treating strippers like people, with dignity and respect. And Jake had a point: “stripper hypnosis” would relaunch my public persona with plenty of punch (a.k.a., social media views).

Anyway, the Red Rose was right next door, I had an hour of free time and, for once, cash in my wallet. Test run? What the hell…

A stripper named Grace (not her real name and not shown) joined our table and started schmoozing. I quickly learned Grace had PTSD from a friend who died suddenly and sexual abuse in the military.

I did the metal - magnet hypnotic test. Grace’s hands touched. She was hypnotic. But one of her hands was shaking badly.

Turns out it was a longstanding issue; a problem that forced Grace to abandon her work as a professional musician. I asked if she wanted me to sort it out. She did.

I put her into trance – in a strip club with flashing lights, pumping music and women on stage doing their thing (not my thing, in both senses, but a bit distracting).

When Grace came out of hypnosis, the APHS worked. I told her to hold her hand out. It was rock steady. Without so much as a “wow” or “thank you,” Grace headed for the parking lot to meet her drug dealer.

Clocking my less than salubrious surrounds, I was left wondering if hypnotizing strippers was “on brand.”

In any case, Jake and I agreed: there was no way in hell the manager was going to let us record in the club, a venue that lends itself to video like an ice rink lends itself to pickle ball.

Also worth noting: I got nothing for my impromptu hypnosis session. Except the satisfaction of helping someone. Aye, there’s the rub (or not).

My conundrum…

Writing is my passion, but it doesn’t pay – at least not yet. I’m sorely tempted to return to the fame and fortune of the watch-swinging business.

On one hand, I genuinely miss helping people. Once I build a rep on social media, the money will flow, as it did in the U.K.

On the other hand, I’m worried hypnosis will take over my life. Again.

Do I want to be a writer or a hypnotist? In my 64 years, I’ve learned that singular focus is the key to success.

I don’t think I can do both writing and hypnosis. I’m scared to try, and there isn’t a hypnotist in town who can banish my angst.

Feel the fear and do it anyway?

Now that the Austin heat has finally broken, I could video some street hypnosis, post it on TikTok and let the universe decide. Or forget it and keep tapping these keys.

Have you ever found yourself standing at a career crossroads (without a guitar)? How did you choose? Your advice would be most welcome.

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