Banned from the Barbie Club! Following last month's inadvertent foray into the staff changing room - and subsequent altercation - it appears that enough is enough. Returning to the scene of the crime, I find a virtual crime scene tape that prevents me from getting within 10ft of the place. Hollering to anyone who will listen, I demand to be let in but it falls on deaf ears. I even email the owners, but receive short shrift.
Clearly still smarting from the incident, manageress Looli Hoffman recalls: "You didn't leave when you were asked to, you pulled your cock out and just sat there."
"My cock was already out," I plead, but she's not convinced. In desperation, I play the press card and explain that I'm giving them great coverage. Still, the lady's not for turning.
"You think that because you're a reporter who gives us some free advert gives you the right to treat my girls the way you did?" she barks. "If you knew me you would know my girls always come first!" "Oh grow up," I snap. "It's a largely pitiful pretend world populated by redneck Americans and tragic goths."
"Doesn't matter hun," spits Hoffman. "You need to respect everyone here, there's people behind the pixels."
"Entirely humourless people, evidently," I retort, and leave them to it.
SATISFACTION Pounding the streets in impotent rage, I stumble across a reasonably well appointed house. For want of something better to do, I break in, park myself on the sofa and watch a Rolling Stones video on the plasma screen. It's an interesting experience, but hardly the same as having a buxom stripper hovering over your bell-end.
With The Barbie Club off limits, I check the A-Z for other mature outlets. The XXX Playground sounds a likely place, so I teleport straight there and land bang in the middle of the dancefloor. I've barely started my soft-shoe shuffle when Delia Darkes pipes up: "You want to come and watch me dance sweetie? Over by the pole. If you like, don't forget to tell my tip jar sweetie."
It's a hard sell, but Delia has the goods to back it up: a winning combination of hard body, blonde dreads, thigh-length boots and what appears to be a pair of wings. I'll spare you the smalltalk, but within minutes she's led me downstairs to a long room strewn with erotic paraphernalia. Various explicit pictures adorn the walls, and video screens show scenes of a graphic nature. Following some hurried negotiations - $40 for ten minutes - I'm throwing Delia around the room like a ragdoll.
THREE'S COMPANY She's a very flexible friend, offering a variety of positions and a stream of filthy talk, interrupted only by some token admin whereby she reminds me: "You have one minute left and I don't want you to not finish."
What can she mean? Finish my tea? Finish the Countdown numbers round? Either way, I decline Delia's offer of another ten minutes and bid her farewell. "Well, remember me sweetie," she pouts. "I'm unlikely to forget you," I say. "I did just [censored to protect the innocent]."
True to my word, I don't forget her, and after taking a couple of hours to think about what I've done (and regain my strength), I'm back for more. And I really do mean more. Tanning one escort is all very well, but for double the money you can have double the fun. Reacquainting myself with Delia Darkes, and luring another compliant blonde, Obliv Krugman, downstairs, we're under starter's orders. Suffice to say, the specifics are unsuitable for a family magazine (or this web site), but following a nervous start, they both feel the benefit of my girth, allowing me to tick the box of my first ever (virtual) threesome.
HILL'S ANGEL Returning to the club some weeks later, neither party is in evidence. Within minutes, the unseen Geoffrey Hilbert asks: "You want to meet me when you got some money, big boy?" "No homos," I politely decline. "I'm no homo," protests Geoffrey. "I'm named after a poet. Geoffrey Hill."
"Terrifyingly, that's my dad's name," I splutter. "Definitely no."
"Well, I can understand that," laughs Geoffrey, looming into view and revealing herself to be a 16-year-old Asian schoolgirl. Suddenly revising my initial answer, I say: "Although you are better looking. What do you do for $180?"
She lists her - expensive - menu of services, and I sheepishly follow her down to a dungeon where a couple are already going at it on a double bed. As Geoffrey explains that we have to work around them, I notice that her wig has fallen off.
"You're bald and you're named after my dad," I blurt, reneging on the deal and running from the room. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it...
