Last night, following a long and torturous day of convention coverage, I found myself in a Denver strip club. (Mind you, as a good reader of Ariel Levy's Female Chauvinist Pigs I don't believe in accommodating "raunch culture" just to be one of the guys.) But, still, there I was.

And this place, it turns out, is apparently quite familiar to an unspecified Newsweek columnist.

This particular adventure was courtesy of two male friends who needed a nightcap, and they argued that a "gentleman's cabaret" was the only option at that late hour. I reluctantly agreed—mainly because I didn't want to take a cab home by myself—and followed them furtively to a table, clutching my $20 vodka soda and smiling awkwardly.

A woman named Sydney, wearing only a black sparkly thong, came over and started dancing for us on the small marble platform stationed in front of our table. After pointing out the butterfly tattoo on her left wrist ("My ex-girlfriend and I got them together," she told us sadly), Sydney casually mentioned that one of her "clients" was a big-time columnist for Newsweek magazine.

"What's his name?" I asked eagerly, smelling a funny story. Come to think of it, though, it may just have been that distinctive floral stripper-lotion.

She was on the verge of telling me, but then I guess thought better of it, opting instead to just shake her head. "He didn't want to tell me his name," she said, adding with a smile, "But I eventually got it out of him."

"Was he at least cute?" I asked.

"Um, no," she admitted.

Was he old?

"Yeah. Like in his 50s or something. But," she chirped brightly, "he was really nice. He left me like an $800 tip!