"You know why?" He didn't wait for answer. "Because for me, there's Mia. And if she found out I was in this club—like, specifically this club where girls strip—she would skin me alive, use my hide as a rug, and dance on it while drinking wine. So my survival instinct is stronger than my horny brain."
"That's healthy."
"And for you—" He pointed at me with whiskey-impaired accuracy. "—you've got Madison. Plus probably twelve other girls based on what little I've seen. You're living in a harem anime. Why would you care about strippers when you've got—" He made vague gestures that were supposed to mean something. "—whatever the fuck you've got going on."
He wasn't wrong. After Catherine Reynolds, after Dominique, after the wellness center women, after Madison, after everyone else—these college girls were pretty, sure. Objectively attractive.
But it felt like admiring a Honda when you owned a Bugatti.
Sure, it's nice, but why would you?
