"Are you wet?"

The last time I went to Olympic Gardens in Las Vegas, a friend and I stayed through Sunday night all the way to 6 a.m. Monday morning.

We were chatting up the one dancer who remained, until the DJ called her name to go on stage. She had to follow course, and went to the stage.

With no one else in the club, we had nothing else to do but follow.

Fortunately, she was attractive.

I don't remember much else about that visit, but we did sneak a couple more dances out of her once we requested she change into a red substitute teacher outfit. Changing took a good half hour, which either meant she was at the stripper thrift store or she was snorting some lines to prep dealing with a couple losers who wouldn't leave a strip club on a Monday morning.

Monday during the day isn't the best of times to patronize gentlemen's clubs, but if you're looking for complete attention, your pick of seats, and free entry, Monday's your day. Never mind what the dancers actually look like, be thankful that it's still extra dark inside during daytime.

Another reason to go on Monday: your flight is a few hours away, you're dealing with a hangover, and you're out of money.

A couple weeks ago, I was at Cheetah's with another friend.

I drove my rental, and I was prepared to smooth talk the bouncer into giving us free admission (I no longer have my Nevada driver's license, aka free pass to strip clubs), but there was no bouncer and not even a cashier or front attendant.

We walked right into the darkness and were immediately greeted by some good breath-challenged girls of maybe the 3-4 variety (on a scale of 100).

But we had time to kill and gambling money to spend. Well, the former. I had to borrow from my friend.

He went immediately to the back room, precious seconds ticking away.

I stuck around front, drinking Grey Goose & vodka (still $12 despite Monday morning), and taking in 2-for-1 dances.

$10 a dance goes a long way in a strip club, while also de-valuing the back room.

A couple days earlier, we had gone to Spearmint Rhino and arriving at 3 a.m. Sunday morning in the middle of an economic downturn wasn't enough to scare the crowds. It was more packed than I'd ever seen it, and there was a line to get into the back room. I'd never had such a shakedown before, but desperate to sit down I had no choice but to visit the back room a couple times, which cost $600 on just two girls and drinks ($50 admission seemingly on the busy night, with 2 drink coupons... which is only good for 1 drink in the back room).

Also at Cheetah's was the stripper buffet. I consider myself a connossieur of all-you-can-eat buffets, but you won't find me partaking in pizza and sushi sitting under lights.

I was in the middle of dance #4 with an Asian girl whose face was in her 40s but resculpted breasts were pre-adolescent. Another good thing about strip hopping during the day is they'll sometimes work extra hard, which she did with her free-roaming hands.

"Are you wet?" she asked me.

"No... are you?"

She answered silently by directing my hand down there.

My friend popped out for a second to borrow my car keys, then came back in and dropped them off.

Ever since a stripper stole my car keys (also at Cheetah's), I'm extra vigilant about where my keys are.

He then disappeared into the back room again.

I had 2.25 dances with a girl from Skokie, Illinois, whose tits were hanging so low she seemed like she had just breast-fed half a dozen puppies. Launching into the 0.25th song, I asked, "Is this song number 2?"

She said no, that we were already into the third.

Bad stripper etiquette: always ask your customer if he wants another dance. The last time this happened, the girl felt so bad when I called her on it that she gave me two for free.

Songs are about 50 percent longer during the days (another plus), and my internal stripper clock was confused. I usually know what song we're on but will sometimes ask in case they've lost track themselves. I was once on dance #19 and she thought it was #17. Score.

This time, however, I asked if it was song number 2 because there was no way I was getting another dance. Even if I paid for part of the third.

I kicked the Skokie girl off me mid-dance and tossed her $30. Her last job was at The Library and some all-nude club near the Palamino that went "all-Mexican." Not the sterlingmost resume.

I had never had such a lackluster dance. Little did I know what was coming 2 minutes later.

"Do you want a shot?" a short fireplug of a shot girl said.

"No thanks," I said.

"Do you want to buy me a shot?"

"No thanks."

"How about a dance?"

There aren't many taboos left in a strip club. But getting a dance from the cocktail waitress or shot girl is high on that bucket list. It's next to having sex with your hot substitute teacher (hence the above OG fantasy).

I accepted and it felt like getting a dance from an Oompa Loompa. Worse, I felt like a pedophile, only without the apparent enjoyment.

I pushed her off after the second song and grabbed my phone and...

Where were my keys?

They were just there, in the chair next to me, next to the phone. My friend had returned them to me, and I made sure to keep them close.

Where the fuck were my keys?

The shot girl was still putting on her bikini top that pretty much held nothing.

I blew up, accusing her of taking them.

The cocktail waitress helpfully came over with a flashlight, and with the bouncer, we tore up the whole area.

I couldn't fucking believe this was happening again. Was Cheetah's strippers' M.O. to take car keys? Maybe display it over their fireplace as a trophy? Is stealing keys the new empowerment?

My mind shot back to 2 years ago, when I had deja vu speaking to the same bouncer about checking the video camera. My fingernails dug into seat cushions, pulling up stuff that will probably later be in a CSI investigation.

My flight was in 2 hours. I made a mental list. Call the locksmith, get a new key, tip $100. A repeat of the first time.

At my wit's end, I accepted that this happened again and sunk into the chair.

I texted my friend: "Do you have my car keys?"

To his credit, he responded pretty fast: "Yes."

Now I went into transference mode, moving anger at Cheetah's to anger at my friend.

I apologized to the shot girl I yelled at (but still didn't accept a shot from her or for her).

Why did he take them a second time? A practical joke, I could understand.

When he returned, I went off again, saying that I'd just told him the story of the stripper stealing my keys, and that he should've made sure I knew he was taking them.

He said he didn't want to bother me.

All it would've taken was making eye contact and showing my keys to me. Besides, I was just looking for an excuse to break away from the shot girl.

And why did he go to the car a second time anyway?

On the way out, he told me.

While in the back room, his girl kept rubbing his crotch with her knee and, well, he had an accident.

He went to the car to change into something clean.

That was about as good a reason as any, and I can't fault him not wanting to sit around in his own mess.

Cheetah's is back in my good graces, but from now on I'm just going to keep my car keys in my pocket.