After tolerating the Euro scene at Russia House Friday night, we wandered across the street to the Royal Palace, a strip club at Connecticut and Florida Avenues NW. My first experience at a D.C. nudie bar had been so pleasant, I thought I’d continue my tour.

Sorry to say, I was a bit disappointed. The girls were subpar. I’d describe them as a little on the thicker side. A stomach fold is acceptable for a dancer, but not full-on rolls. The slim ones, while a few were quite pretty, just didn’t have the moves or the rhythm to hold our attention. I think we just continued a conversation from across the street, about writing or something. The waitress didn’t help either. I’d ordered my usual dirty-old-man scotch-and-soda and was sipping it, mindful of the vodka martinis I’d already consumed, and she kept coming by to ask me if the drink was too strong. “We make our drinks really strong here,” she said, implying I didn’t have the fortitude to handle the cocktail—-or the performances. A Scottish man with us at one point remarked that the dancer in front of us, leggy, pretty and uncoordinated, had an ass like Serena Williams‘. I think he’d had one too many.

On a trip to Georgetown the next evening—-long story—-I got a glimpse of an even grimmer performer: