Illustration by Gérard DuBois.

Two years ago, I went to a strip club. These aren’t places I frequent too often, and I haven’t been back to one since. I should enjoy strip clubs; I like seeing beautiful people naked. I even like seeing ugly people naked. And I don’t find strip clubs especially depressing or exploitative. Strippers have made a career choice that deserves respect, and what they do requires as much skill and artistry as any other line of creative work.

But my visits to the peelers have never been particularly memorable, let alone fun. Usually I end up ignoring the dancers and waiting to go somewhere that doesn’t charge eight dollars a beer. My problem is the forced communalism: someone’s taking off her clothes and I’m meant to share my arousal with a roomful of strangers? No thanks.

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