My life of stripping wasn’t what it used to be. I’d gotten in the same stale routine as every other middle-aged stripper in suburbia. Up the pole, down the pole, standing next to the pole, quietly regarding the pole. And my boss was always in a rush. “Come on people I need those tits out YESTERDAY,” he’d say. As time went on I basically became a pencil pusher. Day in, day out, pushing pencils deep inside anonymous sex parts. But my dreary life took a turn when Jody had the idea to go to Vegas.

We hit the open road with wind in our America and dreams in our drugs. Desert mushrooms big sky rattlesnake hallucinations steel plate sweat mary jane country. We picked up a dusty, all-American looking boy on the side of the road. “I’m 18,” he lied. Whatever, I thought. The boy had some legs. And when you snorted buckshot off of them you almost believed in God.

Long story short, super productive weekend. Focused on the stripping, made a lot of money. A lot of the men there are tripping balls though. From what I hear, they’re making discoveries about themselves and about America.