How to Talk to a Widower

stopping to admire the two ladies currently dancing on the poles, while a handful of the other dancers working the room start circling us like birds of prey in their high heels and negligible lace outfits. Within minutes Rich has pulled out a wad of cash and bought Mike his first lap dance. A small-breasted brunette with a crown of teased hair and a sequined G-string is leaning her nude torso across him, moving slowly to the music, running her hand down his thigh as she whispers in his ear. Word of a bachelor party in the club spreads quickly, and soon we’re surrounded by more dancers than we can handle. Paul grabs himself a tall blonde and heads for the champagne room, still talking on his cell phone, while Mike, Max, Rich, and Dave are content to have basic lap dances right there on the couch.
    I miss my wife.
    “Hey!” Mike says, looking out from behind his stripper, who is now sitting on his lap with her back to him, grinding herself against his crotch in a circular motion. “Someone take care of Doug.”
    “I’m fine,” I say, holding up my drink. “Today is about you, not me.”
    “Bullshit,” Mike says. “Max. Find this man a girl.”
    “I’m a little busy right now, man,” says Max, who is almost fully reclined on the couch, looking lasciviously at the petite redhead bouncing on his lap.
    “You’re my best man, Max,” Mike says. “Do your job.”
    “Stay where you are, Max,” I say, quickly getting to my feet. “I can take care of myself.” I head over to the bar on the far side of the room, and order myself a Jack and Coke. The trick is to keep moving, so as to avoid becoming a stationary target for any of the roving dancers. While I wait for my drink, I watch Mike and the guys in the mirror behind the bar, whispering and flirting with the girls on their laps, cracking jokes and high-fiving each other. Dave, in particular, seems enamored of his dancer, an Asian girl with disproportionately large breasts, and his hands keep snaking around to cradle her ass, a flagrant violation of strip-club etiquette, but he must be tipping well because she doesn’t seem to mind.
    “Hi,” says a plain-faced brunette with long coltish legs and a sheer halter top, rubbing my shoulder as she sidles up to the chair next to me. “I’m Shawnie.”
    “Hi, Shawnie,” I say.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Jack.” She lied first.
    “You want to come with me to the Champagne Room, Jack?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “How about a lap dance?”
    I pull a twenty out of my wallet. “Here,” I say. “You see that guy over there with the brunette on his lap?”
    “Yeah.”
    “His name is Mike. Go give him a lap dance and tell him it’s from me.”
    “Mike,” she repeats.
    “Right,” I say. “But tell him your name is Debbie, okay?”
    “Who’s Debbie?”
    “Who’s Shawnie?”
    She grins. “Debbie it is.”
    I drain my drink and order another, turning to watch as she pulls off her top and climbs onto his lap. He leans over to look past her at me, and I raise my glass in his direction. He flashes me a quizzical look, but then a new song starts, something by the Black Eyed Peas, and Mike disappears behind Shawnie’s arching back.
    Twenty minutes later, I’m still at the bar, realizing with disgust that while trying to stay just long enough to leave, I’ve drunk too much to drive, when Mike comes over to get me. “Doug,” he says drunkenly. “I want to tell you something.”
    “Okay,” I say. I’m pretty buzzed myself at this point.
    “I feel funny, being in this place with you,” he says, sitting down on the bar stool beside me. “I mean, I’m marrying your sister and all, and here I am, in a strip club.”
    “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s just some harmless fun.”
    “That’s right,” he says. “I just want you to know that I love Debbie very much, and I would never do anything to disrespect her.”
    “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”
    “This is just some stupid male-bonding shit.”
    “I know, Mike. Don’t worry about it.”
    “Debbie’s way hotter than any of these chicks anyway,” he says proudly, making a grand sweeping gesture with his arm.
    “So is Laney Potter, but that’s not stopping Dave,” I say. We turn to look at Dave, whose face is buried between the giant breasts of his lap dancer, rocking her up and down with his legs to the beat of the music. “If only your clients could see him now.”
    “You think Laney Potter is good-looking?” Mike