Last Saturday, GTB and I attended the birthday festivities of my new friend L. We started at a wonderfully divey little bar and just about the time I felt the buzz of my Vodka Collins kick in, I heard rumblings of the party moving to a strip club. (Yes, I drink Collins. Why? Because I’m 80. OK?)

Now, anyone who knows me knows I’m not quite a prude, but I have what might be called “prissy” leanings. I.e. I don’t do titty bars. So, when we started hearing the words “strip” and “club” mentioned in the same sentence more and more frequently, we knew it would be an interesting night.

Let me just say here: drinking beer at a strip club is far more acceptable in Portland than it is in Seattle. I kinda think it might have something to do with the relaxed laws here and the uptight ordinances in Seattle. I don’t know enough about politics in either city to have an intelligent conversation about it. All I know is that, for some reason, it’s OK for both men and women, gay and straight, to drink and hang out in a room with naked dancing girls in Portland.

So off we went to Union Jacks (which, I was later told by a former Portlander, is the second worst strip club in the city). I was good and buzzed by that time, so it wasn’t at all intimidating or uncomfortable. GTB kept checking in with me to make sure I was OK with it all. And the thing is, I was. I will admit that I’m not all that cool with the big crotch shots (in Oregon, the girls can be all nude). But other than that, it was fine. Fun, in fact.

The next morning, I flew to Vegas. As the slogan goes, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. So I won’t go into too much detail. Suffice it to say that I got to see my first Vegas strip club, and my first Vegas stripper, up close and personal. And, because life is funny this way, she was from Portland.

Slippery slopes, and all of that.

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