I'd never been to a gentleman's club and given that we were on Baltimore St, I was surprised by how not-scared I was. I had visions of sitting on nasty chairs covered in unidentified subtances, but it turns out you can't sit down in strip clubs unless you pay. The paying-to-sit thing was an issue as I had sustained a foot injury, but I tried to remain unaware of both my swollen foot as well as the sea of genital peircings.
After I spent $26 on two shots, we decided it was time to find someone else to buy drinks. Note: getting men to buy clothed women drinks at a strip club is like... exactly as sad and impossible as it sounds. Add the gimp foot to the equation and we were this decade's Romy and Michelle.
Eventually we made our way upstairs and into a scene from Goodfellas, as Henry Hill was in attendance for some reason. He is short, old, and looks like he would beat the shit out of someone for fun. (which makes sense...because I hear gangsters do that sometimes.) We ordered drinks (NOT on our tab finally) and then he tried to sell us his wares (pastels of palm trees and glocks.) Being a firm believer that fronds and pistols always belong together when it comes to art, I considered buying one until he offered me a "deal" of $300. Thanks, Henry, but no thanks.
Mister Hill is not only a mob associate, pastel enthusiast and failed member of the witness-protection program...he is also an author of cookbooks. A self-proclaimed "rennaisance man," he offered me pearls of wisdom, familial anecdotes and endless amounts of bourbon.
Due to logistics, transportation and an alarmingly swollen right foot, our evening came to a close. I am now enthralled by strip clubs. There is no natural light, Miller Lites cost almost as much as a lap dance, women suspend themselves naked from the ceiling and, if you're lucky, you just might meet an ex-con.