Strip clubs

Charlotte and I go to a strip club.

The Starbucks of strip clubs.

Remember strip clubs? I do.

Strip clubs could be so much better. Don’t you think?

Strip clubs can be glorious, and they can be where you go to watch a little part of yourself die. I’ve done both.

A strip club encounter with a dancer who spoke English, pulled hair on request, and had a heart-shaped ass. I was a perfect gentleman. Seriously.

A man’s inarticulate defense of rape led me to a more honest reckoning with the frustration of sex scarcity — one that justifies nothing, but that nearly every straight man has felt.

Girl on the Net busts some myths about strip clubs. I bust them differently.

I directed you through the crowd, watching your ass, before we ended up in a champagne room with whipped cream and a dancer named Dee who couldn’t stop talking about your tits.

A rant about the state of baseball, followed by strip club conversations with friends at the Yankee game.