𝚂𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚁𝚒𝚋, 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚁𝚊𝚠

Celebrating the semi-quincentennial with America's favorite leisure activity...

“Love & lust have the same number of letters, and share a common outcome. By the end, it’s all dust.” – Adam Randolph

Hi, I’m Adam Randolph. The above quote belongs to me, and it’s more than merely a pretty piece of sparkling wit. I believe in the statement with a fervor reserved for cathedral spires and funeral pyres, and I also practice what I preach.

Adam “Randy” Randolph, forty years young, no kids, never wed. Our society frowns on husbands and fathers who frequent clubs to charter the talents of exotic twirlers. I am much too selfish to give up my greatest passion for anyone, including, but not limited to, a nagging wife or weeping children.

I’d rather spend my dimes on quality time in the hotseat. That’s what I call my favorite spot at the Panther Palace, reserved for me nightly by management. Bottle service, solid angle on the poles, a stone’s throw from the private rooms. Those schmucks should make me a shareholder, maybe even chairman of the whores.

Pardon my French, that was crude. I respect women. I respect these broads in direct proportion to the vastness of their posteriors. The more girth in the rump, the more respect that I dump. Before you ask, yes, of course I’m an ass man. Gimme an impossibly round moon over a pair of drooping asteroids any day.

The quantum mechanics of jiggle physics deserve an entire branch of academic study. Look closely at the bounce and the shake, oh vibrating flesh, and you can read the shrouded history of the cosmos in each and every quiver. Fractal galaxies swallow my gaze, exploding supernovas of the eyes, staring into the oblivion of black holes.

Other than gargantuan rear ends, I hold no preferences, neither physical, height or weight or skin color, nor emotional: soft or loud, rude or kind, sweet or sassy. If some stripper had a limb reduction, where the surgeon borrowed meat from her arms and legs to thicken her behind, I would say “bueno.” That’s Spanish for “good,” as in, “sign me the hell up.” If she cursed my name while gyrating her hips, speaking in tongues for the duration of my chosen song, I’d accept that as well.

Certain men enjoy eating dinner at adult entertainment joints, and the Panther Palace caters to these tastes. Big juicy steaks, for the gnashing of teeth and the crunching of bones. Too heavy for my stomach lining, the right cut at the wrong hour, but I don’t fault those who indulge, digging in with a grin. A full meal fills the gut when attention should be placed on the butt. I like a light snack to go with the erotic grinding lap tease, hand-delivered by my dancer of choice to the secluded zone in the back.

If you agree, you’re in luck: the menu has a variety of Lappetizers available for purchase.

If you appreciate my jive and want me to survive, perhaps even thrive, then consider picking up a copy of my debut novel, The Charlatan. Available here.