you sit down and
GLARE...
      given the head's-up
with a round
piece of green plastic...
a token...
    you run out of money
buying drinks,
      watching with,
the 8th wonder of the world
strutting...
      **** your pants
because at this point:
   nothing really matters....
well...
   she might be prejudiced
asking for a 12"...
that soon fades away
when a baby's head
pops
           out, at 24" girth...
but you're still poised
on that bar-stool...
burrying your face
in a cleavage of a 40+
stripper... echoing,
                  her giggling:
vibrations...
        tell me...
           at what point am i
supposed to cower in
a cloak of shame?
        now?!
           oh ****...
                a needle puncture's
worth of the "expected"
emotion;
    a tryst with pity is
about as far as you will get
reiterating a moral quest
  for my past exposure
to the uninhibited flesh
    of the wobbly *** fest.