Every once in a while, I get the urge for a little self-reflection. I know what your thinking—fucking Dan Higgins doesn’t reflect on dog shit—but it’s not fucking like that. I mean, I’m trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, where the fuck are the best places to go, and how to fuck more bitches.

So I was thinking about this heavy shit, as in where does a brother like me find himself week after fucking week? What is the fucking best club in Moscow?

I mean you got your Propagandas and Garages with all those fucking beautiful people, but I say fuck that. I mean, what are the People’s Liberation Clubs out there? Where can a brother get laid? Not the places like Republica-Beefeater where it looks like there are fucking sluts everywhere but you never fucking go home with them. None of that shit.

I am talking about the guarantors of the sacred right to fuck bitches. I’m talking the fucking Yankees of the Moscow scene, where you might not win every time, but you go four for five. I want stability, reliability.

And so I’m introducing my fucking hall of fame. Here are the best fucking places in Moscow. I don’t give a shit about music or any of that bullshit. If the bitches put out, the club’s on my list.

And, just to ensure the quality of my reporting, I went out last week on a marathon run of the biggest slut magnets in town. One Friday, four clubs, three numbers, and a bitch on her hands and knees.

I started at the Boar House—unlike the other whore hangouts, you can count on a good crowd pretty early. Plus, it always makes me feel validated, man. I mean, with all those fucking geriatric business guys hitting on anything with a camel-toe, I figure bitches find that my fat ass is actually a catch.

10-o-fucking-clock and it was already packed. I hadn’t hit my mojo yet, cause it’s pretty hard when you know you got a fucking responsibility to your readers to continue on. But you don’t need any fucking mojo there; those sluts just crawl all over Americans. By 11, I was on my way to Papa John’s with some dog Oksana’s number in my pocket. She didn’t even give me enough time to start fucking drinking.

PJ’s was still a little dead, but it wasn’t anything a little fucking Baltica, or whatever the fuck they serve there, wouldn’t fix. I hit the bar and soon enough I’m starting to feel pretty fucking good. I’m looking around the second room and start talking up a couple bitches. Whores didn’t speak too well, though, so I went to the dance floor. I wasn’t fucking ready to dance, but the view was nicer.

I found me a little fucking ball of fat—a number’s a number, man—and got Sveta’s digits. Two down.

Now I’m muscling my way past the line at Dirty Dancing. Fucking sluts love it there. Some whores probably fucking wait an hour to get in. But no one gets in Higgins’s way.

I can’t get into it, though. I mean, shit, I get into the club, but I want to fuck, not get a number. Yet I’ve committed to four fucking clubs and here I am only at the fucking third.

So even though there are sluts everywhere, I can’t handle the fucking stupid Santana and shit. I bail without a number. I mean, only fucking Russians will work without getting paid. Fuck that.

My final destination is Voodoo Lounge. It’s pretty fucking late, but I’m batting 2 for 3 and feeling fucking good. I’m ready to bring it fucking home. It’s fucking packed and before long I’m talking another Sveta up. Fucking bitch decides to go home though, and all I get is a fucking number. She was pretty cute, but not cute enough to call.

I’ve fulfilled my mission, but I still have no pussy. Still, there is plenty of meat. I find myself an average looking ho with a face like the painted fucking desert. She wasn’t much work at all. Shit, she must have been used to the mattress in her acne face, though. I hardly got her clothes off before she stuck her ass up like a fucking bitch in heat. That’s what I call fucking initiative, knowing nobody wants to look at your fucking face.

So there it is. Higgins’ favorite fucking places to fuck.