Her name was Creamery Butter and she was a dancer.
That's certainly better than Margaret, he thought. Not that there's anything wrong with Margaret. Though likely, the Margarets of the world might have to try a touch harder than the lithe creature gyrating so close he could feel the heat from the burning sticks she was waving seductively.
He supposed the risk of third degrees burns added to the sensuality.
Mind you, he wasn't certain of much. He looked around the dim confines with its glowing florescence and dark corners. The drinks certainly were dear.
"Would you like a private show?" she asked.
"Yes, very much," he replied.
What would mother think if she were alive?