I've never been comfortable going into a Topless Bar.

Oh they're called different names depending on who or where you are. Nudie Joints, Titty Clubs, Boobie Bars. My favorite is when they are called Gentlemen's Clubs. Whenever I go to a "Gentlemen's Club," the guys that are there could rarely be described as "gentlemen." They're usually guys who've just been paid and have a very practiced leer.

Regardless, I've never felt comfortable going inside one. I always feel bad for the girls that are stripping. I walk in fully clothed and these poor women are prancing around with nary a stitch. It always makes me want to take my clothes off to make them more comfortable. If everyone is naked, no one will feel like they're being stared at, right?

Today I got a call from an old friend that I've known for years. He's leaving this week to move to another city and he wanted to throw himself a going away party. He decided to have the party at the place where he works as a manager.

A Topless Bar.

The wife and I were at home getting ready to go to the party. That's when I realized that there are new and unfamiliar dynamics for getting dressed to go with her to a topless bar. There is a new set of rules.

Ordinarily when we get dressed to go out with her I know the rules state that I'm supposed to look attractive, but not more attractive than her. I can't set the bar too high because it will make her work harder to look cuter than me. (It's not that hard, really but rules are rules.)

I knew things would be different on this day because the discussion about what we would be wearing to the party was a bit tense.

Her: So what time should we get there?

Me: Well we don't want to be too early... but we don't want to be late and wind up feeling rushed.

Her: So what time should we get there?

Me: I don't know.. 12:05?

Her: (Impatient glare.)

Me: Kidding! Two o'clock.

Her: And you'll be wearing what, exactly?

Me: (Blurts) Suit and tie!

Her: (Openly Hostile Glare)

Me: Lederhosen with clown shoes?

I wound up putting on the least remarkable thing I could come up with. It was literally a shirt. And pants. With shoes.

I still knew I was screwed when she saw me.

Her: Oh I bet the whores are going to just looove you in that!

We got to the club around 2 p.m. We walked in the door and were immediately struck with the smell of perfume and desperation.

The people that frequent a topless club at 2p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon can  be lumped into two groups:

1.    Guys who are there by themselves and are in the throes of a very powerful sexual addiction.

2.    Guys who are there with a small group of friends who are still partying from last night and are in the throes of a powerful narcotic addiction.

My wife and I were there to represent another group entirely:

3.    Uncomfortable Well-Wishers.

We ordered a drink and sat at a table near the bar. I made sure to sit with my back to the show and stared directly into my wife's eyes and did not waver from that.

It was the only safe place for me to look.

I sucked down a beer in one gulp and ordered another. When I paid for it I felt like I was back on a cruise ship. Except the lifeboats in this place didn't look anywhere near as safe.

The other thing about 2 p.m. on a Wednesday at a topless bar is that the girls who are stripping are not exactly the club's first string team. Let's just say that I noticed more than one dancer with a scar that looked like it came from a bullet wound.

Her: Oh Sheee's really cute!

Me: Who? Her?

Her: No! Her!

Me: Oh... If you say so.

Her: Wait you thought THAT ONE was cute?

Me: No! I thought you were pointing at her. That's why I was confused... because she's so clearly not cute.

Her: You should give this girl here a dollar.

Me: What girl?

Her: The topless one with big tits.

Me: C'mon, Honey. There are lots of topless girls with big tits in here.

Her: I think I was referring to the one that's massaging your scalp and rubbing her tits on the back of your head.

Me: Sorry. I thought she was a friend of yours.

Her: Okay.

Me: I was waiting for you to introduce us.

Her: By all means! Allow me!

Me: Finally!

Her: Hi! This is my husband, Matt. He's an idiot.

Stripper: Hi.

Her: Matt, this is a strange woman who is presently rubbing her fake tits into the back of your head.

Me: Hi. So how do you two know each other?

Both: We don't.

Me: Here's a dollar.

Stripper: You're right. He is an idiot.

At this point we had been there for about an hour. I wasn't entirely comfortable but I wasn't entirely ready to leave. That was when my wife, Becca suggested that I should go give a dollar to the dancer on the main stage.

Her: Go on! Here's a dollar. Go give it to her.

Me: Why her?

Her: That's the same girl whose nipple marks are on the back of your head.

Me: Wait, now you like her?

Her: Hard not to, Honey. Plus she's gotta be in debt with what she paid for those implants.

Me: You think they're FAKE?

Her: Just go. Now. No more talking.

I march dutifully to the main stage, dollar bill in hand.

The male degenerate denizen audience members watch me with half-lidded attention.

I have a dollar bill in my outstretched hand. My arm is fully out stretched. I mean that I am holding the dollar as far from my body as I possibly can.

I walk to the stage and proffer the dollar bill to her in the least sexual or intimate way I can possibly muster.

At arm's length.

At the time she was writhing onstage with her ass toward me.

To the untrained observer it might have looked as though I was trying to arrest her and take her into police custody by threatening her with a unit of currency.

She finally noticed me and started toward the dollar bill. It was then that I accidentally dropped the bill to the floor.

I instinctively lurched for the bill.

So did she.

Our heads struck at the same time and we both reeled as our heads collided and time absolutely stopped.

We locked eyes and then looked at the dollar.

Both of us went for it but she was faster as blood was coming out of my forehead and into my eyes.

Later in the car my wife rubbed my forehead with mock sympathy.

I had hoped she would feel bad for me and my utter humiliation.

Her: Don't worry, Honey. If any of your friends ask you what you did today...  you can tell them that you went to a strip club and one of the dancers gave you head for a dollar!

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