I could almost go there, just to watch you be seen.

My recent excursion to the “Penthouse Executive Club” (read: upscale overpriced strip club) was a fun and educational experience. I’m not used to seeing such large amounts of cash thrown about so wantonly. The guy at the table next to us had a 2-inch (folded) stack of fifties that he was distributing—to strippers and management alike—as if they were singles. My god! I was clearly out of my league. (Of course, I realized that fact the moment I walked up to the door, which was staffed by no less than five doormen, and was hassled about the inappropriateness of my dress. Clearly, “trendy hipster” is not the look they're going for amongst their patrons. Stuffy suit-and-tie is more like it, which I generally am not down for.)

Once inside, though, I realized that part of my mistake was probably my neglect to slip the guy some cash. Didn’t realize it at the time (I’m so inexperienced!), but after about five minutes inside witnessing the way things are done in such an establishment, it was painfully obvious.

Everything has its price tag, that’s for sure. And at places like the Penthouse Club, it’s immediately obvious that part of what’s included in that price tag is not just being treated like a raging stud (you’d get that at just about any strip club), but being treated like a classy, refined, raging stud. A classy, refined, raging stud with the most discerning of tastes, who is entitled to all of the best things in life (for whom it would, in fact, be a crime against nature to be denied such things), including a harem of the most beautiful of women all simply begging to take off their clothes. (What’s that? A nagging feeling that you’re really a sad, middle-aged man who has to pay to see some tits and ass? My god, wipe that thought from your head, man! For just a few fifties, we’ll make sure that never crosses your mind again.)

And take off their clothes they did. And man, were they gorgeous! We really lucked out having Mr. Big Spender at the table next to us, as he provided us with an awful lot of poached entertainment throughout the course of the evening.

Admittedly, one of the reasons we were there actually was to have dinner. A friend of a friend had been told by food critic Jeffrey Steingarten that this was actually the place to find one of the best (if not the best) steaks in Manhattan. And although that fact remains under dispute, I think it’s safe to assert that the accompanying “side dishes” just might have played some role in Mr. Steingarten’s perceptions. In fact, as we were sitting down to our table, we were approached by a woman who asked us if we’d like to indulge in an appetizer. And not yet having looked at our menus and/or fully taken in the surroundings, we initially misunderstood that she was to be said appetizer. Oops.

Good thing that by the time we were offered dessert we were decidedly more savvy.

Several hours later, having had our fill of beef and boobs (and having lightened our wallets significantly), we decided that it was time to shed our classy, refined, super-stud status and head back down to the street where we would be forced to reclaim our normal middle-class identities.

And as such, I am not ashamed to admit that I opted not to tip the doormen on my way out.

As an epilogue, when I received my credit card statement a week later, I realized one more priceless item included in the Penthouse Executive Club experience: discretion. At first glance, I was confused by a rather large charge that I didn't immediately recognize. It was from a place called “Robert’s Steakhouse.”