Whenever a girl was called to the bar to be scolded, the reprimand she received seemed exclusively aimed at stimulating the sale of sparkling cider ‘champagne’ at ten dollars a glass.
And the customers bought it, gladly paying that price for the privilege of sitting a few minutes with the scantily-clad lady of their choice. Cut her from the milling herd and rope her in with a lariat of cash was the name of the game. Let the other cowboys chomp and wait their turn. For a few minutes she would sit with him, fondle him and allow him to fondle her. They would laugh at each other’s witticisms. Pretend they could understand half of what they were saying to each other over the deafening volume of the surrounding din. Pretend they gave the smallest shit about what they actually did hear.
Hoot witnessed customers buying all the rest, too. The supposedly legitimate offerings from the club menu; lap dances, table dances, and Texas-style couch dances. Call it by whatever name you like, it was desperation on the barrelhead.