When Go-Go Boys Attack: The Bar Hopping Post-Mortem

First off, I can't even recall how many places I went to last night. I know I started off at Splash, and went to Rawhide, and then The View, but after that it's all a blur. All I know is that I woke up this morning with two stamps on my wrist, one from Rawhide and another one of a globe or something. I also woke up having bought two porn films which reveal that I might very well have some subconscious lust or appreciation for the work of Gus Mattox, Owen Hawk, and Kent Larson since they appeared in both films. Go figure.

So this was the first real proper night out I've had in more than a month. No corset, no restrictions, no worries. Unfortunately, I last went out in May when it was slightly cooler, therefore making my choice of a black t-shirt very unwise. I was boiling for most of the night. A bartender at Splash suggested that I doff the shirt, but I can tell you that ain't going to happen unless I'm drunk and dancing, neither of which I was at the time.

In general, it was just good to be out. The only real downside was yet another go-go "boy" (it's hard to call someone a "boy" when they look ten years your senior) dancing on the bar at Rawhide. I do not get this concept at all. If I want to give you the money, then I'll go up to the podium and stuff it in your g-string. It's very bizarre, because while in some situations I'd be all for a scantily dressed man thrusting his crotch and rear in my face while I suck on a beer. However, I'd like to at least invite the guy to do that, not just have it foisted upon me.

That last sentence is a sign I probably should get laid more often.