Well I ended up going out again last night and this time I made it to the strip club near Times Square. I figured my disdain, as outlined in my previous entry, was mostly a mood, and it was. After a long week of writing, I needed to get out of my head and rest it in the vicinity of a woman’s bosom. I met a very cute Asian-American dancer, we chatted, and she lapdanced for me a few times. It was really quite nice. The only downside, as I explained in the last entry, was the fact that this is a costly pleasure I can no longer afford on a regular basis, so I have to be careful not to make this a habit as it was in the halcyon days before the Great Recession–which as far as I’m concerned (and judging by the struggles of my friends, as well) is not over.
This is not a picture of the girl who danced for me–it’s just something I found floating around the Web–but I would say the effect that she had on yours truly was equivalent to the erotic clout of the following image. Perhaps it is presumptuous, but I am taking it for granted that most people, or at least most men, will react to this image with the same slack-jawed eye-popping awe and pleasure as I do. If you don’t react thusly, then substitute in your mind whatever visual from your memory bank that does inspire your personal quotient of dumbstruckedness.
It had been such a long time since I was in a club, and I’d grown so unaccustomed to such a pleasant experience with a peeler, that I woke at dawn after only four hours of sleep thinking about how delightful it had been. Which was kind of a drag, because I’ve been exhausted and had to really slog through my day’s porn writing with extra coffee. I’ve felt like a zombie all day. But a happy zombie! Such is the effect of a talented topless terpsichorean on grumpy ole Uncle Irv.