Ever wonder why that lap dancer grinding against your beer gut looks like she’s about to puke? Our reporter secretly worked a pole in one of the godforsaken corners of our great land in search of an answer. During brief fits of sobriety, she managed to eke out this ode to heartland sleaze.
You’ve seen me before, but you can’t figure out where the hell you know me from.
My blue eyes eerily peer at you over my menu at a local saloon. You notice me. You nervously twitch and start to sweat. Why are you so scared? Where do you know this girl from? you think to yourself. Then it hits you: It’s that crazed stripper Fawn, the one with the insatiable thirst for pinot grigio! You fall to the floor and roll into a pathetic ball. Your bald head is perspiring, and I’m laughing in the corner. Next thing you know, you are being carried off into a lucid daydream, fantasizing about the strip club, the debauchery and the excess.
This is Buffalo, below the Rust Belt.
Cunterbury tales in the Queen City
Street lamps distort the indiscretions of the night. You are standing on a street corner in the dark. It’s summertime, quiet and vacant. Yet…bass notes thump from an unassuming brick building. Pushing open the glass door, you’re captured by a curtain of noxious cigarette smoke. The inside resembles Grandpa’s living room. Armchairs and ashtrays. In striking juxtaposition a stripper pole juts to the ceiling.
