Lyca lived in Portland -- she was only in New York for a few days to visit her father, a professor at Oregon State doing some sort of research in the city. He'd filled up Lyca's days with trips to the Met, the Museum of Natural History and the U.N. I offered to show her my New York, which had come to consist mainly of the East Village's abundant, cheap Ukranian bars. I met her the next night outside her hotel. As we walked, Lyca told me she worked in the dirtiest club in Portland, that most of the men who came in there were sick, even as guys who frequent tit bars go. "Everything we do is illegal. If the cops come in they'll bust the girls. You're supposed to stay six inches away from the customer at all times. But you pay for a dance, where I work, and you can get more if you want. "Sometimes you'll be dancing on the table and look down and a guy has his dick out of his pants, waving it at you. Jesus. Now I'm getting all depressed about my job." Lyca looked away and was silent. I put my arm around her in a stupid attempt to say I would not judge her.
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