"My mother worked in a burlesque house in New York City, and the other girls who worked there came to our house to hang around and get their tans. Strippers can't have stripes in their tans, you know. I got to see everything, which was pretty rare for a boy growing up in New York: this was before Playboy, in the Thirties. One took me to her bed one day and told me to tell her when I felt too much pressure. Well, when I did, she walloped me a good one in the ribs. Boy did that hurt. But that took care of that. After a few more good punches, and with pretty sore ribs, I learned to control things, and never had to learn it again.
"When I was seventeen, my girlfriend was twenty-eight, and from a well off family, so she kept me. Eventually, she married me. She was jealous of any other woman I talked to. It isn't hard for me to talk to women. All I have to do is loiter on a street corner and one will come by and talk to me.
"She died of cancer a few years ago. She never did figure out that I only wanted to be with her. Now I can't.
"Well, this is a fun city to find something to do in. Have fun, young man."
He talked about a few other things, like how to keep a woman happy, but I suspect this is the wrong forum for graphic details and marital speculations.
Welcome to Las Vegas, sir. A former boytoy fits in here as well as anyone else: you can relax.