If you’ve never seen a woman sprint in 7″ stilettos, well…it’s a sight because she can’t just run like a normal person.  Extremely high stilettos are like horse hooves: you have to pick your feet up higher than normal to make sure you don’t trip and go head first into the dirt.  And trying to do it really, really fast?  Hilarious to watch.

But that’s what I did – holding my hand out in front of me like it was poisonous.  It very well could have been.  My skin was crawling, like I could feel the onset of some crazy disease being dispersed through my body on the back of millions of teeny-tiny spermies.  I made a mental note to

1. Track any potential symptoms from this day forward.
2.  Research any potential symptoms from this day forward.
3.  Get tested for everything every other month from this day forward until I was absolutely positive that I was fine.

I went the back way through the VIP area, out the door, past the backstage entrance and burst into the dressing room.  Our housemom, Ming, noticed the panic-stricken look on my face.  I couldn’t find my voice to tell her what was wrong, but she looked at my hand and made a fair guess that it wasn’t good.

Alcohol.  I need alcohol.  Bleach.  Disinfectant.  Anything.  She pulls me into the bathroom with a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She dumped the whole thing on my hand while I scrubbed it with a hand towel.  Once the bottle was empty, she got a second bottle of hydrogen peroxide and dumped that on my hand too.  If she would have started chanting some Asian mumbo jumbo, I’d have been game.  Can’t be too careful.

We inspected my hand for any cuts or open lesions of any kind.  Thank goodness I didn’t have any, but it was still a very scary situation.  I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking.  Ming asked if I was alright.  I nodded, but I was far from steady.

I just washed random semen samples off the tips of my fingers: it was going to be a while before I was fine.  Like months.  After all tests have been exhausted and I’m out of the danger zone.  Do they not clean back there?  How do they have sex without being interrupted by a bouncer?  AND there are cameras!  How does that happen?  I mean, there was a collection of condoms underneath that seat and there were at least 30 different back rooms, plus two champagne rooms and 10 more booths upstairs in the spaceship!  That’s a lot of fucking condoms!  That’s a lot of fucking!

I couldn’t believe it.  If all that was just below the seat in that room, what the hell else was underneath those rooms?

I know what you’re thinking…come on, are you trying to tell us that you had no idea girls were having sex for cash in this place?  Of course  I had an idea, but it was a far-removed reality, like anal sex or clit piercings: I knew it went on around me, but did I really need to experience it firsthand?  Hell no.  Who wants those painful images in their head?

Once I felt as clean as I possibly could and my hands were scrubbed raw, I hit the floor again.  All I could see was a sea of germs.  People laughing, coughing, shaking hands, drinking drinks, smoking cigarettes (still legal at the time), kissing cheeks, high-fiving, tipping dirty cash, girls taking money with their mouths (uck.), girls sitting with no hanky, g-strings on the stage floor, pole tricks with no panties, splits with no panties, butt crawls with no panties, sweaty booty claps, girls on laps, girls coming out of VIP and going straight up to customers without washing their hands, customers coming in – more germs, girls’ hands spreading their vaginal lips, then touching the pole, men coming out of the bathroom…I was walking around, driving myself crazy…oops, I just bumped into my favorite blonde bouncy girl.  She was so pretty and chipper all the damn time.  She dropped something.  I bent to pick it up for her.  It was a fucking condom.  Well, that explains the constant smiling…