America is so big that only a few hours out of your own city you can feel like a tourist in a different country altogether.

What’s great is that your phone and bank card still work. I was in Albuquerque for a work thing and couldn’t believe how different everything was from where I live in Maine — the food, the sky, the cars, the women.

Especially the women.

Last winter, work had me staying in a cheap motel near the airport. I think the new office manager back in Bangor thought the Spanish-sounding name seemed exotic and neglected to look at the one-star, multi-cockroach rating in favor of the cheap overnight rate. But the bonus was that I was right across the street from a strip club.

I like going to strip clubs in different cities because the girls talk differently, smell differently, move differently. No matter how many lap dances you get, or they give, strippers get you off differently, too.

So after a world-class but inexpensive meal at a hole-in-the-wall by the motel, I put on my jacket and walked across the busy street to sample some real local flavor. The place was a dive and looked just a little dangerous. I liked that. There’s nothing worse than some stripper superstore (cough, Vegas, cough) where everybody looks the same and they can’t seem to get the hang of treating you first like a poor slob who wants to fuck them, and second like a cash machine.

Immediately upon walking in, I knew who I wanted: She was a pale, slightly heavy redhead with a lot of hardware: rings on her fingers, nipples, and (I later found) clit, and tattoos that actually meant something crawling up her thighs and ass. Taking her in, I saw fire-red pubes poking out of barely-there panties atop near-translucent, thigh-high stripper boots.

She saw me looking at her, pointed at me and mouthed: You.

The bouncer gave me a look (the dude could have killed me), and I made sure to slip him a twenty. I went over to the bar and gave up another couple of twenties, waiting for Ginger to show up. A couple of other dancers approached me, and I made sure I bought them each a drink, but let them know I was waiting for the redhead. “On any other night…,” I told them.

Finally Ginger showed up. I’d been thinking she looked like my ex — about 5’4” barefoot now (on those floors? gross), big, natural tits, heavy bush, just the way I like it.

“You done with that drink?” she asked, giving me a little kiss on the neck. “You’ll need your hands.”

I’ve learned that if you’re not cheap, and you let the girl take charge, you can go far in a divey strip club. All they want is for you not to be creepy and to spend money. What the fuck is in it for them otherwise? Also: Don’t ask asshole questions like, “So, do your parents know you do this?” or “So, did you drop out of college?”

Turns out Ginger looked familiar because I’d actually seen her in a couple of amateur porns she’d made with her boyfriend. I recognized her from the tattoo, which was a twisting bonsai tree.

“Saw you tip Carlos,” Ginger said as we walked to the little VIP room. “Baller move. Pretty sure he kills people in his other job.”

“We all gotta work,” I said.

She sat me down, straddled me, and just sat there for a second. The weight of her body did to my cock exactly what it should have: I became fully, pleasantly hard faster than one of those supercars in the pages of this magazine gets to 60. Some strippers mentally check out and wait for the song to end, but Ginger just kinda looked at me, gently rocking — as if we’d just had sex. The feeling was delicious and my cock pointed to those outrageous stray pubes like a divining rod.

Her cunt engulfed me and she was rubbing her tits up and down my face.

I was about to ask her how much per song, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“You want to come?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Two hundred bucks. You good?”

“Yeah,” I said, and tried to reach for my pocket.

“Not now,” she said. “Just let me do the work. Don’t worry about the song, okay?”

“Okay.”

I gotta say, I respect her work. Strippers who grind away on me listlessly, all the while saying they’re “a very sexual person,” turn me off so fast. But Ginger just increased the pressure. She told me there was a camera so I couldn’t touch her, but that my smart move with Carlos ensured that there were other ways to skirt the law.

As she ground her thighs into mine, she reached behind her head in this exaggerated sexual-ecstasy move designed, I think, to give whoever was watching the idea that she was acting all “porn star” for the rube. With her other hand she deftly undid my belt and helped me wiggle my pants down just enough. My cock was freed and sprung up happily.

“Hiya,” she said to it.

Then her other hand went to the back of her head, and she thrust her breasts in my face.

“Hold out your hands like it’s a stickup,” she said.

I did as she told me, laughing a little that she’d said “stickup,” as that is exactly what my cock was doing.

The song changed but Ginger kept on doing what she was doing. Suddenly a condom was being rolled down my shaft (had she hidden it in her hair?) and her lovely, warm/cool hands were very gently squeezing my balls. Oh, my God.

“Oh, my God,” I said, echoing my thoughts.

She expertly manipulated my cock to a 30-degree angle (any more and I think it would have broken off) and moved in closer. Her panties were moved to the side and, just like that, she mounted me. I don’t take any credit for the fact that she was totally wet and that I could feel what was going to be an incriminating spot on my pants; I was just happy to be the beneficiary of it.

There are some strippers who you know have no enjoyment for their job, but this was not true of my girl. Within a second her cunt had engulfed me and she was rubbing her torso and tits up and down my face in the best way possible.

She didn’t bust out any porn language like, “Do you like that pussay?” or, “Your cock is so biiiig!” — she just coaxed my come up like sap from a maple tree. My hands still stretched out, she let my head rest on her bouncing, sweaty, glittery tits, until I felt I was really close.

She knew it, too, and I could feel her start to squeeze. Her cunt was so warm and I could feel the heat through whatever cheap condom she’d put on me. I had a moment of thinking, Shouldn’t I try to get her off? But then I realized that I was paying for this, she needed to get back to work, and she was perfectly capable of supplying her own orgasm on her own time. Still, I felt a little guilty because I’m such a goddamn gentleman.

I felt the come working itself up, and my body tensed. So did hers. She pressed her body hard against me and I let loose. I felt it fill the reservoir tip and I could feel her muscles squeezing out every last drop. We both gasped at the same time, and that was a satisfying sound to hear from her.

Just as professionally as she’d done everything so far, Ginger swiftly squeezed the condom off my noodling cock. I don’t know what she did with it and I don’t want to know. I hope it didn’t go back in her hair. She raised her haunches and said, “Pull ’em up,” meaning my pants, and I managed to make myself presentable — if no one paid close attention.

I got up, a little dizzy, and Ginger took me by the hand to a little hallway between the VIP room and the rest of the club where the camera didn’t reach and no other patrons were around.

“End of the line,” she said, and I gratefully peeled off five twenties and two fifities. She kissed me on the neck again, which made my drained cock perk up a little. “Thanks for making me come and not being an asshole,” she said.

That’s all they want, guys. Also? Tip the bouncer.

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