The first time, the trick is to be just drunk enough to take your clothes off in public, but not quite so drunk as to fall off the stage, a complicated balance of blood volume to alcohol that is no simple task for the uninitiated.

... If it is any indication, when I finally pack up my things and head for the club, I’m thrilled to imagine myself as Cheryl, the stripper, as opposed to Cheryl, the overeducated corporate punk.

My first time, dancing and crawling around half-naked for the amusement of lonely software engineers and salesmen, I came away with eight bucks, all ones. Still dazed and undecided about whether I should be humiliated or proud, I stepped off the stage to congratulating pats and smiles.

Since I can’t take it back, I may as well be proud.

Without my glasses, faces around the stage look blurry. It’s just as well that I can’t see. I’ve become completely paranoid about being spotted by someone from my office. It’s only a matter of time before some clandestine bachelor party comes up, and there I'll be in all my glory. I can just imagine my boss dragged in by some client or company man to schmooze, looking completely bored and embarrassed until he sees me here.

"Excuse me, Dr. Bartlett, don't I pay you enough?"