And now it's time for bad writing. Weee! Oh, and when I say bad, I mean bad.

Her name is… hmm it seems to have slipped from my memory. But then
who am I really kidding, no one gives a damn. Not me, not the other
people here, or the hundreds of others before us. Hell, it's probably
not even her real one. What we do care about is watching her young
body on the stage, shaking and strutting to try and tease a few
crumpled bills from our pockets. The truth of it is she's doing a
damn good job of it, though the multiple buckets of overpriced beer
probably play at least a small role too.

I'm sitting here with one of my Navy buddies, we're in uniform,
getting paid too much to do too little, and we're enjoying the
attention. Yeah the girls are just trying to get our money, but we
don't care, they focus more on us than anyone else in the bar. It's
the same everywhere in this town. Put on the uniform and the girls
come running, why would the strippers be any different? Of course
they're probably just thinking we're easy marks, knowing we've been in
training for a while and more than eager for a glimpse or a touch of
something we haven't had in a few months.

Cracking jokes and critiquing the dancers is fun for a while, but then
I can't help myself and decide that I want a little more. I'm a
romantic and it usually gets me into trouble. So I start talking. I
flirt. I tease. I pay. They dance. It's a weird feeling, having
some girl rubbing her body against me, telling me about herself, or at
least a story about herself, playing along with the music, following
the usual script. But then the song changes and I pull out another
$20 to keep the story going. Not completely unlike buying the second
or third drink when you've been chatting up a girl at a bar, but more
up front, more honest in a way. You don't feel any early onset guilt
about knowing you're never going to call her the next day.

She's been telling me about her problems...

And now it's time for bad writing. Weee! Oh, and when I say bad, I mean bad.

Her name is… hmm it seems to have slipped from my memory. But then
who am I really kidding, no one gives a damn. Not me, not the other
people here, or the hundreds of others before us. Hell, it's probably
not even her real one. What we do care about is watching her young
body on the stage, shaking and strutting to try and tease a few
crumpled bills from our pockets. The truth of it is she's doing a
damn good job of it, though the multiple buckets of overpriced beer
probably play at least a small role too.

I'm sitting here with one of my Navy buddies, we're in uniform,
getting paid too much to do too little, and we're enjoying the
attention. Yeah the girls are just trying to get our money, but we
don't care, they focus more on us than anyone else in the bar. It's
the same everywhere in this town. Put on the uniform and the girls
come running, why would the strippers be any different? Of course
they're probably just thinking we're easy marks, knowing we've been in
training for a while and more than eager for a glimpse or a touch of
something we haven't had in a few months.

Cracking jokes and critiquing the dancers is fun for a while, but then
I can't help myself and decide that I want a little more. I'm a
romantic and it usually gets me into trouble. So I start talking. I
flirt. I tease. I pay. They dance. It's a weird feeling, having
some girl rubbing her body against me, telling me about herself, or at
least a story about herself, playing along with the music, following
the usual script. But then the song changes and I pull out another
$20 to keep the story going. Not completely unlike buying the second
or third drink when you've been chatting up a girl at a bar, but more
up front, more honest in a way. You don't feel any early onset guilt
about knowing you're never going to call her the next day.

She's been telling me about her problems now, drugs, jobs, etc. I have
started to drift off. I'm thinking about other women, real women.
Women that I have loved, or at least made love to. And it is always
making love, even when they're screaming obscenities and acting like
wannabe porn stars; maybe not to them, but for me always. I'm still
lost in thought when I notice the girl slip off to the side of the
couch and look at me, so I come back to the present. The song is
over, and so is the dance. And I'm out of cash. I don't really care
though, having already gotten my emotional fix, and plenty to think
about later on for a more physical need. Apparently I've been a good
listener though. She talks for a while before straddling me again
giving me another dance for free. This time I stop thinking and just
enjoy the simple pleasure of a naked woman in my lap, even if she is
barely real to me.

I finally get back to the main room and see my friend looking bored.
Checking the clock I see that we've got to head back to base. We're
already late, but no one will know, so who cares. Reeking of cheap
perfume, smoke, and alcohol we stumble from our seats. Right before
we make it out the door I run into my dancer again and ask when she'll
be working again. She tells me something I barely hear. I smile and
walk out into the night, knowing that even if I come back I will
probably never see her again, and I love her for it.