“We’d rather go topless than wear fur …”
This is the tagline on the poster hanging in the back of the Manhattan branch of Rick’s Cabaret. The girls featured in it, clad only in G-strings, are from the UK version of the same club. The poster is part of an anti-fur campaign run by PETA.
“I bet there was a black girl who dropped out at the last minute. It’s just way too much fake blonde hair,” observes the redhead I am sitting next to.
“Yeah,” agrees the brunette to her left, “there’s even a space in the middle like they were missing a girl.”
It is 11 a.m. and I am at the strip club for the second time this week. Ostensibly I am here researching my Sirens article “Sexing It Up for the Bad Economy.” But I’ve almost finished writing, and I have all the material I need. So why am I lingering? Maybe I am being thorough. Maybe I just want to say I’ve been to a strip club before lunch.