I sit on the champagne-and-Cheeto-dust sticky edge of the stage clutching my wad of singles. Every few seconds I pull one out to lovingly fold, then crinkle it. This is an excellent outlet for the rising sexual tension of watching the effortless booty clapping of a woman named Weed Slut. It’s also the best technique for making an appreciative bill travel further, then flutter down nicely around the dancer. I’ve been to many strip clubs, but I’ve never been surrounded by so many other women cheering enthusiastically and respectfully as other women demonstrated so much agility and grace.