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I deleted Alanna's number the next morning.

I've seen fools trip over themselves, toss logic out the window, and let stupidity take the driver's seat while they succumb to their siren's calls. The sweet nothings that flow so effortlessly from the dancer's mouths enchant these drunken buffoons to dispense the cash right out their pockets. Case-in-point, two of my cohorts from the Vegas trip were suckered out of two thousand or so dollars over the course of two nights at Sapphire by two Asian dancers.

Here's the dangerous part of being a young buck that doesn't have problems reeling in women in the “real” world: any sense of confidence is increased ten-fold when reveling in a strip club. Dean (part of the Vegas crew) had the menality of “I'm not some old perv. I'm super in shape. The ladies LOVE me here. I'm most definitely going to get some sex in the back.” Of course, after dropping a thousand, all he was left with was an intense case of blue balls and a crushing sense of financial remorse. Aaron was paired up with Dean's dancer's friend, so, while not as vocal with his disdain, he dropped about the same amount with the same results.

But, hey! They got their phone numbers! And they all became Facebook friends!

Dean and Aaron's flight hit a mechanical snafu, so the airline comped them another night in Vegas. Of course, after a rousing day of gambling, they went straight back to Sapphire and dropped another grand each on the same girls. When they told me their tale, it was like watching Wile E. Coyote strapping on a pair of Acme rocket-powered rollerskates, only to miss the Road Runner by a huge margin and plummet off the cliff. Twice.

A month later, I received an email from the two saying, “We're coming to bang our strippers and visit you.”

Notice how visiting me was number two.

So when it came time in their itinerary to “bang” their dancers, not only did they not obtain the sweet nectaur they were buzzing for, but they didn't even get to meet up with them. At first they received a text message that one of the girls was sick, then thirty minutes later, they were informed that the girls weren't in L.A. at all, but in Vegas.

“Come visit us at Sapphire!”

Dean and Aaron aren't big proponents of humility, so they just jived about how they were, first and foremost, in California to visit me and they could care less about hanging out with dancers.

“Our strippers aren't even that hot anyway! Whatevs!”

The irony is that these two guys are the biggest nay-sayers of my strip club antics.

The one thing their stupidity did gift me was an acute sense of suspicion when dealing with dancers. I treated every interaction with Alanna as a calculated move to pilfer more money. Her giving me the phone number, her revealing her real name, her progressively gentler demeanor, all elaborate rouses. I didn't mind. I understood and adhered to the zeitgeist of the place. So long as the concept of the fantasy world was still intact, I could care less about throwing my money away. Where my life was, feigned infatuation was infinitely better than true intimacy.

About two months later, I found myself, once again, perched atop the black stool, leaning against the cold bar top. Brenda and Damon, the bartenders for the night, welcomed me back.

"Haven't seen you in a minute, Jack! Where you been?" Damon exclaimed in his raspy voice while giving me daps.

"Oh, you know, rocking' and rollin' through life."

"I hear that!”

"The normal?" Brenda coos.

“Yup.”

"Well, I got to get back to my bar, but I'll see you later."

"You're the man, Damon."

"Here you go, baby." Brenda handed me a generously poured glass of Macallan 18 neat.

I took a swig and let the soothing burn spike down my throat. The older gentleman sitting next to me requested my attention.

"Wow, so who are you?"

"Hmm?" I squeaked while going for my second swig.

"That mini-hero's welcome from the bartenders. You must be a favorite regular."

I laughed at the absurd comment, or so I thought.

"No no, I'm not a regular."

The older gentleman chuckled. "Look, son. Brenda and Damon know you by name. And they know you're drink. You're a regular."

That was the first time I dawned on me: I was a fucking regular.

No longer was I the observer from afar, trying to take a peek into a strange new ecosystem to report my findings. I was part of this world now, fully assimilated into this sub-culture. The realization manifested itself as a bittersweet grin.

Later on, as I'm making my way to the bathroom, I hear that familiar, sweet voice.

"JACK!"

I turned my head and saw Alanna, in the middle of giving a lap dance, smiling at me with her radiating beauty. Not wanting to ruin her current customer's service, I smiled, waved, and darted off. After ten or so minutes, I felt the warmth of her body wrap around me as she gave me a hug, capped with her signature kiss on the cheek.

We fell right back into our old routine and ran off to the V.I.P. room.

"So when are you going to call me?" she said with a smile as she was getting dressed.

"Oh, um, soon!" I stiffly spouted, trying to be as casual as possible, "I don't think I have your number, though."

Alanna shot me a lackadaisical glare. "I gave it to you."

"Yea, I kind of... deleted it."

"Why the fuck did you do that?" The lioness from the early days was peaking its head.

I shrugged my shoulders with a smile to acquit myself of any possible accusations.

"Give me your phone."

Alanna punched in her number, but this time, hit dial and pressed the phone to her ear. When her voicemail was prompted, she hung up.

"Now I have your number." she grinned.

For the next few months, we partake in this tumultous tango - her trying to lure me in and me tip-toeing through the field of traps I'm convinced she has set up. My acute sense of suspicion synergized with alochol to create a finely-tuned bullshit detector.

"I'll have my fun AND never be suckered!" I triumphantly cheered in my alcohol-addled brain.

Sometimes she'd punch me in the throat or straight in the face when she found out I had deleted her number again. Sometimes the topic wouldn't come up. Sometimes she'd straight up ignore me. Sometimes she wouldn't leave my side for the night. By the time Autumn had settled in, it had become another part of our routine. Then one day in V.I.P. she casually mentioned her fuck buddy.

"Yea, he's this older guy. I think his late-thirties or early-forties." she told me as she's grinding on my lap.

"Nice!" I meant it. I would later learn that this fuck buddy was one of the regulars she picked up during my two month sabbatical and the force that would unravel her.

I could give you a multitude of reasons why I didn't try and chase after this girl. I could give a spiel about respecting the sanctity of the strip club. The truth of it was, in any other setting, I would be head-over-heels for this girl. I'd gladly don the role of the fool in my pursuit for her with an incorrigible persistence.

But the stage where it all transpired beckoned a different act. You needed logic to preservere through the illogical circumstances. You needed sobriety to combat the inberating effects. I would never fall prey. Not like Dean. Not like Aaron. Not like all the countless stories I've heard.

Alanna rested her head on my shoulder. With a non-sequitor, she began to extol the virtues of Adele. I chimed in with how I appreciated her talent, but found her music to be insufferable.

"God, you have such horrible taste in music." she whined

"How dare you. You have taste in music like a deaf person!"

She gave me a payful slap in the face and called me an asshole. This bizarre Honeymooners-esque arrangement, where she played the role of Ralph and me as Alice, was infinitely delightful. Just, instead of verbal threats of violence, she would actually try and send me to the moon.

We ended that night without any more words, just letting the tranquil silence muffle the thumping bass lines, the rowdy customers, and the screaming manic D.J..