Man Camp is coming to a close.

Remember how I said there were four girls and eight tits for hundreds of miles around? Well that number has shrunken and the only fun bags to entertain the oil troopers are those of yours truly.

That’s right. I am the only lady left at Man Camp.

It’s a little overwhelming.

My wallet is happy, but the rest of me is having a hard time processing thoughts like, “What’s my fake name again?” and “Do I need to pee?” Every night is eight straight hours of lap dancing and having loonies flung in my general direction. I found it hard to believe that in this town of 7000 people, there isn’t a single lost teenage soul with a prescription for Adderall. The world is full of surprises.

Since I couldn’t find any kids with baby speed, I credit Tequila, The Most Effective Panty-Peeler of All Time for getting me through it.

Last night a young handsome chap came in and waved me over to his perch at the bar. His eyes were red.

“I’ve just received some bad news,” he starts.

“My dog ran away. I need some cheering up.”

As I take a seat on the bar stool next to him, I’m prepared to listen, nod, and rest my hand on his shoulder as he tells me his story.

“Let’s go for a lap dance,” he says before I can get both cheeks onto the vinyl upholstery.

If my dog ran away, the last thing I would do is want a stranger to dance naked for me. Behold the #2357th explanation for how Peters and Cookies respond to a different wiring system.

I take this boy to the back room and peel off my bra, Daisy Dukes and g-string as he alternates between choking sobs, stories of his 16-month-old yellow lab, and complete silence (Choking sobs as I sway, silence for a lingering 30 seconds as and after I peel off another layer, followed by a quick story of how his pup would chew gardening tools and his ex-girlfriend’s vibrator before the sobs start back up again).

If you’ve ever tried bending over in six-inch platforms, you’ll know that it requires a lot of concentration to keep oneself from teetering over. To keep myself from laughing at the thought of a dog eating a purple sparkly dildo and the bizarre fantasy-therapy this boy has chosen to remedy his immeasurable sadness, I turn around and bend over, offering up the best view in all of northern Alberta.

I rue the day my ass will no longer serve as my scapegoat.