3 Guys Walk Into a Strip Club...

...a Fijian, a Japanese, and a Minnesotan.

It's not a joke. That's what I did after work tonight. This was one of Portland's juice bars, so the dancers were at least 18, but not quite 21. Scary. Even scarier, they were out of Mt. Dew so I was forced to drink Pepsi.

I walk in and immediately five girls are next to me saying, "Hi!", "Oh My God!", and "What kind of bike do you have?" Nowmally I tell people I've got a '73 Ironhead, because I am quite proud of riding the smaller but faster American bike. I knew these girls wouldn't understand. "'73 Harley."

"Where is it?"

"Last stall."

"Oh my God! I have to peak." And then three of the girls rush to the door to break the club rules and look at my bike. This made my companions quite happy. We were already getting more attention than any of the boys inside.

I really didn't want that much attention from these girls, myself. There are reputable and fun strip clubs where you can go and have a good time while observing the female form sensually in motion. For these dancers, it was business. They were selling flesh for a dollar a dance and would probably sell you a hell of a lot more if you shelled out the cash for a private session in a side room, which I was assured had no video cameras in it.

As an avid people watcher, this was the saving grace of the place. I was the life of the party. I was the one making noise, smiling, and talking to the girls. A strip club is only as lively as the patrons. The patrons here were dead. I swear they were all trying as hard as they could to look like they weren't enjoying themselves. Yet they were laying out singles like nobody's business. Go figure.

Oh, and I finally got to see the flaming nipple trick performed. That's a real crowd pleaser.