Seven hours, five strip
clubs, countless crotches and
a gaggle of horny men
"Are you girls strippers?"
We haven't even been in Outer
Limits, a northeast side topless
bar, for five minutes. We find
a seat at the bar with our backs
to the stage and order Captains
and Coke, in a liquid-fueled attempt
at killing our discomfort, before
some middle-aged man decides to
sidle over to coworker Jen and
I, to pose that question.
"No," Jen tells him.
"Then what are you doing
here?" he asks.
"Hanging out." >>