I live in a large metropolitan area that is home to over 6 million people and is anywhere from 55 to 95 miles across depending on which axis you measure it. When I go clubbing with my pants bulging with cash and bad intentions, I select my club destination based on the following 3 criteria:
- high mileage reputation;
- quality of the eye candy; and
- remoteness from areas where I am likely to encounter anyone who knows me.
On my most recent foray into one of my favorite dens of depravity I was comfortably esconced in a dark corner enjoying a prolonged stripper handshake when a spotted a colleague tipping the dancer on the stage. The fellow in question, while well known to me, is really just a professional colleague rather than a close friend.
I might have approached him since he would be in no better position to blab about where he saw me than I would be to blab about him. But I didn’t. I kept my eyes on him, verifying that he had not spotted me and was unaware of my presence.
I tipped my stripper handshake girl and told her I was leaving shortly.
As soon as this guy disappeared into the men’s room I shot out of there like a bat out of hell.
I am now debating whether I can ever feel comfortable going back to that club again.

