While in Portland, Oregon, for a journalism conference last week, I boarded a rumbly old school bus for a tour of the city’s all-nude strip clubs. The bus was crowded, as good journalists never miss the chance to peek into a furtive subculture or, it turns out, to look at boobies.
Visiting five burlesque clubs in one night was a whirlwind education, but even more fascinating than the stage acts was the clientele. While men in buttoned-down shirts and loafers fixated on the gyrating sirens before them, I watched the watchers. Because when you strip away the pretense of dating and the art of romance, you get a little titillating insight into the male mating psyche — the naked truth, if you will.