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.
From Troubleshooter
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