I DESCEND THE STAIRS into a subterranean Denver lounge called Lime. Instead of bell-bottoms, this place is all spaghetti-strap black dresses and button-down Kenneth Coles. But it's as disco as Denver gets.

Hitting the first landing, I can't help but feel sexy, dressed as I am in green Adidas, corduroy shorts with a one-inch inseam, and another nipple-tight T-shirt. This one is baby blue and reads, in shimmery letters, LOVE MEANS NOTHING TO A TENNIS PLAYER.

"Oh. My. God. You are my favorite person right now." It's the hostess, who busts out laughing. "I love you."

"Well, thank you," I smile. "But, you know …" And I show her my T-shirt.

Shenanigans and flirtation continue unabated as a group of stellar dudes and I roll to two other clubs, breezing past meaty bouncers so stunned they cannot speak.

At the bar inside the dance club Le Rouge, three pert young women giggle and splash some sort of cologne/perfume on my neck. "It has pheromones," one explains.

I have found my people! Gone are the failures, the humiliation. Roped into a bachelorette party, caught up by a stream of women exiting a stretch white Hummer, we continue on. It's difficult to tell if the women who cross the bar to chat me up take me seriously or think I'm a harmless dope on the way to a costume party.

So what? If I've learned anything from this experiment, it's that reality is a trip, make of it what you will. Tonight, I figure, that reality is gonna include a sexy lady sharing a little Courvoisier, kicking off her shoes, and running her bare feet through my shag carpet. Just her, me, and the mustache.