So he’s out with mates for a reunion evening. One beer follows another, to the point where he sees nothing unusual in the management at the last bar of the evening charging £5 for admission.
As he drinks with a few of the larger group, he’s gratified and astonished to find two beautiful young women joining him and chatting like he’s a long-lost pal. Despite the adage about not looking a gift horse in the mouth, he can only curb his disbelief for so long.
“Blimey, you two are friendly, aren’t you?” he blurts out.
The girls look at each other.
“Do you want a dance?” one of them asks him.
“A dance!? My dancing days are long gone,” he replies. “I’m old enough to be your dad.”
They look at each other again and laugh.
“No, you don’t dance, we do,” they said. “Do you want a private dance?”
His face by now tells its own story.
“You do know this is a lap dancing club?” one of the girls asks.
Well, he certainly did now.
And yet, there is a moral in this story. “Because they knew we weren’t a threat,” he told me on the altogether safer ground of his fishery lodge, “when they weren’t…er…on duty, as it were, they’d come and have a drink and a laugh with us for the rest of the evening.”
So now you know: the nice guy always gets the girl. He just never gets to lay a finger on her.
[pic courtesy of Daniel Morris at Flickr. And no, it isn’t the establishment in question]