Eventually though, I needed something hotter. I discovered masturbation, which proved far more satisfying than pissing in a tumbler could ever be. And in time, I lost the inhibition about masturbation that comes with Catholic guilt. Once I realized that in the court of self-fondling everyone is guilty, I felt free to discuss with my friends the methods and frequency of one-man-handling. We'd spend many an hour debating all things masturbatory: which is the best stroke book; are two paper towels better than a sock as a catch cloth; do you fantasize about your present girlfriend or the ex, and if it's the present one, then why not skip the middleman and simply have sex with her? But there is one conundrum that, to this day, still plagues my jerk circle: Why was it that whenever I got into a nudie booth, I could never get off?

For the sheltered few who don't know what a nudie booth is, I'll paint the filthy picture: You go into a small room, stick a token in the slot (evoking sex immediately), and a panel rises to reveal a Plexiglas window into a world of lust. On the other side, a woman, usually nude, sits on a barstool and puts on a revealing show. Just how revealing depends on how many tokens you insert.

Every time I went to a nudie booth, I was hell-bent on jerking off. That's what it's all about. But the irony was that in a commercial setting designed specifically for masturbation, I didn't even lower my zipper. Every time I picked up the phone receiver (used to communicate with the woman behind the glass, thus increasing the emotional distance), I never conversed pervertedly, never detailed the insertions I longed for her to illustrate. Instead I'd inevitably wind up having a ten-minute conversation about (a) why she chose this profession; (b) what her net income is; (c) if she's involved; and if so, (d) what her boyfriend or girlfriend or husband thinks about her job.

Why was my fascination with trashy activities coupled with this crippling disability to join in? I knew it was all an escapist fantasy, but the realization that I was playing a role tarnished the luster, and I'd find myself conversing with a pube-shaven coed.

I can trace my reluctance back to the first time I ever patronized a strip club: in 1989, when I was nineteen. In New Jersey, the clubs that don't serve alcohol are called juice bars, and since there's no hooch on the premises, the strippers are allowed to get completely naked. My friend Bry and I sidled up to the bar, ordered our Yoo-Hoo's, and took it all in with wide-eyed, laid-back enthusiasm. But it wasn't the girls we found captivating: It was the men around us. They made strong, direct eye contact with the strippers and caressed their breasts as they slid a five- or ten-dollar tip into their cleavage. It was disturbing. These men were convinced that they could "have" these girls. You could see it in their eyes. They sincerely believed that, come nights end, they could bring the strippers home and act out what they were saying with their hard-core gazes. Bry and I left feeling more depressed than anything else. We spent the car ride home ridiculing the guys who bought into the whole scenario, puzzling over how anyone could be so misguided, and swearing that we'd never turn out to be the sorry individuals we'd just witnessed.

And then, years later, I went to Toronto.

For those not in know, our neighbors to the north operate the finest strip clubs on the planet - beautiful women, adorable accents, sanitary surroundings, and, unlike the Jersey all-nude strip clubs, beer on the premises. According to my hosts during that weekend visit a few winters ago, this was what made the White North great. And while taking in a show at the Brass Rail Tavern, Toronto's premiere peeler bar, my hosts offered to buy me a lap dance. I'd never done it, and though I resisted their charity at first, the offended glance the stripper shot me when I declined made me succumb.

She took me by the hand and led me to a dimly lit room, where she directed me to an enclosed booth that housed a comfy armchair. I sat down and she proceeded to unsnap her flimsy excuse for an outfit and toss it to the side. The fact that she was totally nude jarred me - every lap dance I'd ever seen or heard of involved semi-dressed women. This was not the case in Canada, obviously.

When the song started, she poured herself into my lap and began grinding, as if we were a couple of teenagers in the precoital throes of passion. I started a conversation right about then.

"How long have you been doing this?"

"Huh?"

"I said, how long have you been doing this?"

"Four years here. I used to work in London, but I couldn't stand the commute."

"You stripped in London?"

"I was an emergency-squad nurse during the day. The I'd come here."

"You'd travel all the way from London to Toronto just to do this?"

"London, Canada."

"Oh."

As the song concluded, she asked if I wanted to go again - ten bucks a song. I agreed, and we continued our conversation, this time with her leading.

"You look familiar, You're not from Toronto are you?"

"I'm from Jersey."

"You look familiar."

"Ever heard of a movie called Clerks?"

"Is that the one where there's a sign on a cash register that says IF YOU"RE GONNA STEAL SOMETHING, TELL US?"

That's when I started to fall in love.

"Have you seen it?"

"No, but I read an article about it. Are you in it?"

"More or less."

"That's cute."

As she ground into me over the next fourty-five minutes and my wallet got considerably thinner, we got to know each other. She told me her name. Then she told me her real name. (Strippers usually go by stage names.) She seemed skeptical when I told her my name was Smith, but I assured her it wasn't a lie.