I can't give you a good reason for being in this strip club. They're not really my sort of thing. All pomp and circumcision, vaguely beautiful girls staring off into the distance as they thrust their most personal belongings in the faces of strangers. Flirtation is mechanical at best. This isn't their destination, so don't get too attached. You're more likely to get laid in the biker bar next door.
Yet here I sit. It is strange indeed how being out of town can make one more adventurous. Part of it is boredom, it's true. But the rest is legitimate confidence and the desire to slip into another role for a little while. I would never have gone to a nudie bar by myself at home. These forays are reserved for bachelor parties and desperate individuals. But here, in a completely new place, surrounded by people I should suspect if not fear, I said What The Hell. I just wanted to go out, find a place called the "Pink Poodle" or the "Golden Belle," strut around and flex a bit.
It's all innocent fun, of course. A few dollar bills here and there; No touching. But I felt like a Man, virile, willing to stand my ground and not be intimidated by this place, by "Kalifornia." Because it's more than just being in a new place. It's being here in sultry, surly, sensuous Sunnyland, where the nouveau riche buy homes with cash, a half million or more for a house, just a little house.
Even the recent recession/depression/fuckover hasn't done much to dissuade this exuberance. It's merely cleared the chaff to allow more mobile folks to get their schwerves on in new digs.