This is a work of fiction. Our protagonist name is Michael and at the time of this story is 34 years old, has cerebral palsy has been of epilepsy medication for six months after advice from his neurologist. He has experienced similar events to that of the author of the blog ‘The Limping Philosopher’, but is not identical to that author.
Why not he thought – what can possibly go wrong? Michael had only recently become a fan of breasts and a pleasing behind, having only very recently come off his medication for epilepsy, so one August night decided to the local lapdancing club.
Even once he had made the decision, he was filled with apprehension, generally nervous by nature, Michael quite frankly hates social situations – to the extent that he oftentimes introduces himself as having Aspergers simply to save on explanations (he has in fact been diagnosed with it but that is beside the point). At least if he does this people will leave him alone, and a man alone is no harm to anyone.
Maybe he thought; as he stood outside the entrance – which he thought was incredibly small and unimpressive given what goes on inside – he felt that the exterior should match the grand promises of the interior; that he should go back home – where it is safe. But he didn’t, he’s sorry he didn’t, but he didn’t. He nodded and smiled sheepishly at the bouncer standing outside and went through the doors. He paid the obligatory twenty quid, checked in his coat and offered his walking stick – ‘I have cerebral palsy but can still walk’, he apologised. That’s OK mate, came the response and he wondered in money, libido and hopes in hand.
He considers it ominous that the walkway to the bar was a huge uphill slope, laced with stairs – why he thought , what architect, looks at a perfectly straight and easy to traverse pathway and thinks ‘You know this needs – an extra flourish – a staircase, just to make it even more longer to get there!’. Still there he was, and it was quite an eyeful. Every variation of the female form was there. Redheds, tall blondes, and petit brunettes, all decked out in negligee and corsets.
Michael made a beeline for the bar; the slope-like entrance to the main floor was so steep that he was in fact, quite exhausted. Sorry ladies, you all looked lovely by quite frankly he needed a drink. He orders a glass of red wine and is presented with the most expensive, smallest, most foul tasting excuse for a merlot he has ever been presented with in his life. He focuses on his drink – he was genuinely thirsty, and the difficulty in re-traversing the slope to the private rooms was not appealing at the time – despite the promise of pleasure that could be experienced there.
But then one of the petit brunettes walked up to him. ‘Hello’ she chimes. Hello, he responds.
But she was cute.