The Pole

You may recall our good friend with the Everlast half shirt from a month or two ago. She showed up at the bar again last night.

We're sitting there, minding our own business. I'm watching ten men tear into a plate of nachos like their lives depended on it. By the way, if you don't get to eat off the plate first, forget it, because they've had their nasty little paws all over the jalapenjos and olives and it just grosses me out thinking about it.

Anyway, she walks in and takes off her coat. I'm sure she's a perfectly nice woman. Well, I'm willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, anyway. But she's wearing knee-high black leather boots, a black leather skirt and a low-cut red shirt with some sort of gather thing on the front that I imagine would accentuate any cleavage she had if, of course, she had any.

Any one of those things would be okay. Even the boots and the skirt would be okay together, if she had on a nice turtleneck. But when you walk into a bar at 5:30 p.m. looking like that? And when men who make a habit of discussing my chest like I'm not attached to it are commenting about how trashy she looks? And when they're asking me why she might want to dress like that? And whether she actually went to work looking like that?

Honey, it is time to get off the pole.