Less Fun

Sometimes I would go to Henry the VII as a guilty pleasure in the late 90s. I returned recently, one day, to see that nothing much remained from my prurient memory. Though the interior seems not have been altered, it was a mix of black and red loosely tied together with old paint, there was no 'talent' on hand that made me want to stay for any more than fifteen minutes. After paying the five dollar cover I sat down to watch an overweight over the hill dancer hug the pole to some other tune than the one playing at the time. After while a big girl, a – well – fat girl, sat next to me and started to grab at my crouch. I left.