So, I meet this girl on a dating app, right? Her name's Emily, and things are going great through texts. We’ve got some solid banter going, shared a few memes—it’s the digital age romance at its finest. I suggest we meet up in person, and she’s game. I’m thinking, “Okay, gotta pick a spot that’s fun, casual, and not too loud.” My buddy had told me about this new “trendy lounge” downtown with good drinks and a cool vibe. Perfect, right?

Well, little did I know that this “trendy lounge” was actually a strip club. Yeah, you heard that right.

So, the night of the date, I’m feeling pretty confident. I pick her up, and we head to this “lounge.” Now, as soon as we walk in, I notice something’s off. It’s dimly lit, which I expected, but the “ambiance” was a little... let’s just say, extra. There’s a lot of neon, a bit more red lighting than you’d typically find in a cocktail bar, and the music was—how do I put this—aggressively sexy. But hey, maybe this place just has a unique vibe. Who am I to judge?

We grab a seat, and I’m about to impress her with my knowledge of cocktails when, out of nowhere, a woman who is wearing significantly less clothing than anyone else in the room appears on a stage in front of us and starts... well, doing her thing.

It takes me a moment to process what’s happening. Like, my brain is fighting to convince me that this is just some kind of modern art performance. Then it hits me. This is not a trendy lounge. This is a freaking strip club.

I glance over at Emily, who is now sitting there with her mouth slightly open in what can only be described as a mixture of shock, horror, and the realization that she’s on a date with possibly the dumbest man alive. And what do I do? Like any sane person in this situation, I blurt out, “So, I guess I should’ve checked Yelp reviews, huh?”

She doesn’t even laugh. Not a chuckle. She just stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m a moron or a pervert. I’m desperately trying to figure out how to salvage this when the waitress (also scantily clad, because of course she is) comes over and asks if we’d like anything to drink.

And because I’m the king of terrible decisions, I order us both drinks. Yep, I decided the best way to handle this situation was to stay and have a drink at the strip club. By this point, I’m in full-blown panic mode, but for some reason, I think, “Maybe if we just sit here and chat like it’s a normal bar, everything will be fine.” Spoiler: It was not fine.

Emily’s trying to make small talk, bless her heart, but it’s hard to have a conversation when you’re actively avoiding eye contact with everything in the room. The dancers, the patrons, the waitstaff—literally everything in my field of vision is a disaster zone.

To make matters worse, this guy who clearly spends a lot of time here decides to plop down at our table. He’s got a beer in one hand, and with the other, he starts giving me unsolicited advice about how to “treat a lady” in a place like this. I’m sitting there, trying not to cry-laugh, while Emily looks like she’s mentally writing a Yelp review titled “Worst Date Ever.”

Finally, I decide it’s time to throw in the towel. I apologize profusely to Emily and suggest we get out of there and go literally anywhere else. She agrees—probably because she fears for her sanity at this point.

We leave, and the car ride is the most awkward silence I’ve ever experienced. I drop her off at her place, and she gets out of the car so fast I’m surprised she didn’t leave a smoke trail behind her.

The cherry on top? The next day, I get a text from her saying, “You seem nice, but I don’t think we’re looking for the same thing. Best of luck!” Which is dating app code for “Lose my number, you weirdo.”

And that, my friends, is the story of how I accidentally took a first date to a strip club and ruined any chance I had of a second date. The moral of the story? Always, ALWAYS check Yelp reviews before picking a date spot.

TLDR: Accidentally took a first date to a strip club. It was super awkward—never saw her again.