You  know you’re a strippophile when you go to a strip club on your night off.

Last night I was accompanied by my darling friend and newfangled stripper enthusiast, Ronnie, to a wine bar. We decided that the tannins and its so-called ‘legs’ we boring so we went to see some real legs, investigating how much tastier they can truly be as they ripen with age.

We went here:

It’s in Bushwick.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with Brooklyn or New York City in general, Bushwick is an industrial-cum-hipster melting pot of welding installation artists and militant vegans.

It’s not where you would expect to find a strip club.

Which is why it “Never charges cover” and markets itself as a “your local topless bar keeping those Williamsburg hipsters in check with strong drinks, vintage motorcycles and sexy strippers.”

Outside, we noticed a shiny black penis motorcycle. Inside, there were two other patrons - a 50- or 60-something (because who can really tell in such dim lighting, and who really gives a shit when you’re focused on the violet-tressed babe seated next to him), and a blonde biker nursing two cans of PBR. We learn that it’s happy hour is almost ending so we’d better hurry if we want to cash in on four-dollar cans of brew.

Pumps isn’t so much a strip club as it is a titty bar. The venue is long and narrow, with the only performance space lodged behind the bar.

The mamasita barmaid, well over forty, is wearing a bedazzled Ed Hardy zip-up hoodie, and flashes us a coy smile as we take our seats.

Ronnie feels like showing off with his purchasing power, so we opt for ten dollar margaritas that taste like Organic toilet bowl cleaner.

We slide the money across the bar to pay for our drinks, but Mamasita insists that we put the money in her white cotton wonderbra, unzipping her hoodie and squishing her tits together with great enthusiasm. Ronnie and I both feel a little uncomfortable, because we’re already appreciative of the trouble she’s gone through to make our drinks. Suddenly I feel shy. . Maybe it’s because I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater (it’s cashmere, ok? And it’s getting fucking cold outside. But I am keen on exploring why it is that I am infinitely more confident when naked). I slip an extra dollar beneath her bra strap and Mamasita wonders off to the biker. Ronnie and I exhale.

We look up to see a scrolling marquee. It reads:

A Latina babe riddled with body art takes the stage. She is wearing a Borat bikini.

Her most notable piece of art is what appears to be a Christmas wreath tattooed around her navel. Her pole dancing abilities exude total radness. She smacks her six-inch plastic platforms together to make sure we are paying attention. At the end of her set, she struts along the bar, like Mamasita, squeezing her tits together to collect our Washingtons of appreciation.

Next, a suburban punk-rocking Russian doll saunters up on stage. Or maybe she’s Polish. No matter. I decide that she is perfect. whoever she is. She has purple hair and a purple bikini to match. She’s hardly wearing any make-up or glitter but her adorable smile lights up the disco den and I decide that now is the time to make it rain with my remaining six dollars. I have fallen in love. Her name is Violet. Maybe it was my turtleneck, or my lack of bills that exceed the single-digits, but she just kept on walking when I tried to make googley-eyes in her direction. Or maybe it was the googley eyes.

Ronnie pats me on the back, “That ‘genuine smile’ was nothing more than a smile. That was not ‘a moment’ you two shared.  You’re worse than the guys in here.”

With my empty wallet and dejected heart, Ronnie puts his arm around me and takes me away from this den of lost hope and fantastical delusion.