Clients: We need VIP service, because that’s how we roll!
Jack: We need VIP service, because I need the kind affections of a non-harpy!
Me: Yay, Boobs!
Bourbon Street: Welcome to VIP. The drinks and dances cost more, but the usual bouncer:patrons ratio is reduced down to just these two angry large men watching your every move.
Us: What a relief. But is that all?
Bourbon Street: You can rent a couch for $300. Only your server will visit.
Clients: You’re getting warmer.
Us: The problem with these dancers is that they keep rotating out, just as they’re getting interesting.
Bourbon Street: You can rent a cooch for $300.
Me: Is it BOGO day?
Bourbon Street: Only if you brought a coupon. Ass.
Bourbon Street: Also, we know you recently returned from Antarctica, and only one nearly naked chick is probably too many.
Me: Any limits?
Bourbon Street: No. Also, “No” means no.
Dancer: I am here until Jack’s credit is maxxed out.
Me: Well OK then! Hey wait, you’re in my personal space!
*drunken groping ensues*
Dancer: Hey wait, you’re in my personal space!
Me: You forgot to push my hand away.
Dancer: Ow, razor burn!
Me: Sorry. I’m out of my depth here.
Dancer: As long as you stay out of mine, nerd.
Me: Unless you come with instructions, that shouldn’t be a problem.
Epilogue: Four guys, four strippers. I was not the only one who did not fuck a stripper (or at least get a bj) in a club that night. I was the only one who did not ever believe it was a possibility.