A stripped away conversation

Back in 2005, I was flown to Atlanta, Georgia—partly to get out of town, partly to escape my own head. One night, I ended up at a strip club. I paid for a lap dance from a woman who was stunning, but what stayed with me had nothing to do with the dance.

Afterward, we sat at a small table off to the side, casually sipping our drinks. It was a strange and almost surreal setting. She was completely nude, yet what followed was one of the most human conversations I’ve ever had. The walls came down. I started talking about my life—how everything felt like it had fallen apart—and before I realized it, I was crying. Then she did too, sharing her own struggles, her setbacks, the weight she carried beneath the surface.

I don’t remember how long we talked. Time didn’t matter. In a place designed for fantasy, performance, and surface-level desire, we stripped all of that away and were simply two people being real with each other.

When we finally parted, she told me that if I was ever back in town, we should meet for coffee. Life moved on, and I never returned to Atlanta. I never saw her again.

But I never forgot her—or that moment. A space built on sex and spectacle unexpectedly became a place of honesty, vulnerability, and connection. And that conversation has stayed with me far longer than anything else from that night ever could.