When I'm exhibiting at a trade show, I always try to schmooze clients by offering to treat them to an evening out, with their choice of entertainment. Being a man in the heavily male-dominated oil and gas industry, I sometimes field requests that lean toward the risqué, but my corporate management forbids strip clubs. When I get such a suggestion, I do my best to woo clients without endangering my mortal soul or my access to a company credit card.

At a show a while back, however, both were at risk. Three gentlemen from a company I was courting for a big chunk of business stopped by my booth, and I offered to take them out on the town, maybe for a nice dinner or a baseball game. They said they had their hearts set on going to a burlesque show they'd heard about and asked if I'd be game for that. I envisioned a performance akin to that of Las Vegas showgirls, who show some skin but are fairly harmless. So I told them it would be my treat.

Meetings after the trade show floor closed robbed me of dinner, so I wolfed down a banana and two granola bars on my way to the hotel lobby to meet the clients. I hadn't looked up information about the place we were going to, but I was praying it served food.

Once at the venue, I soon realized that burlesque is more or less a fancy word for strippers with costumes. A woman wearing stilettos, fishnets, and a feathered hat was cracking a whip on the stage – oh yeah, and she was topless. As we made our way to a table near the front, the men slapped each other on the back, and one did a little fist pump, but all I could muster was a hard gulp. This was going on my company credit card, and I twitched as I pictured the conversation I'd be having with the office administrator when I turned in my receipt for the tab. It also didn't take long for me to realize that my clients were drinking professionals who were going to put me under the table or die trying. The drinks were coming like they were on a conveyor belt. I asked our waitress about food, and she plopped down a bowl of pretzels. I was in trouble.

I tried to save myself, filling my belly with handfuls of pretzels and water. I even attempted to pass on a couple rounds, only to be cajoled like I was an amateur – which I was. After an hour, I attempted to fake an injury and beg out, but my headache excuse made the clients eye me with distrust, as if they'd just discovered an infiltrator in their gang.

My coveted contract felt like it was dissolving right before my eyes, so I steeled myself and vowed to show these guys that I could hang. The only problem was that I couldn't, and after a couple of hours, I was pretty drunk. As each new dancer took to the stage, I started to have to close one eye to see if it was one girl or two, and I was desperate for the show to end. In between their performances, the women wandered the room talking to customers. My clients were not shy about telling the ladies we were in town for an oil and gas show, and that must have made us sound rich because it got us plenty of attention. One of the gals told us that she'd like to be in sales, and we – all drunk and talking stupid – assured her there were a lot of opportunities. She suggested we should meet for breakfast at our hotel to talk about it, which my clients said sounded like a great idea. But when she asked for a business card so she could connect with us, they all fished around in their pockets and came up empty. Either desperate for the contract or too drunk to lie, I handed her one of mine, thinking this was all just bar talk anyway. Finally, after four hours of punishing my liver, we stumbled back to our hotel for some merciful sleep.

At 7:30 a.m. the next morning I was jolted awake by my ringing cellphone. It was the woman from the night before, and she was waiting in the lobby for our breakfast meeting. I sat up and tried to shake off the coma I'd been in. My business card has my cellphone number on it, and this woman had taken all that bar talk very seriously. Embarrassed, I tried to act like I was expecting her. "Uh, sorry," I said. "I didn't get my wake-up call. I'll be down in 10 minutes."

After I hung up, I frantically called the rooms of each of the men I'd been out with. No one answered, but I feebly left messages as if they were actually planning to meet for breakfast. Feeling too guilty to cancel on her, I fumbled to get dressed, swearing at those guys and myself. I felt like I had just been taken on a wild ride by them and then left on the side of the road – with a burlesque dancer.

Over what can only be described as an incredibly awkward breakfast meeting, I learned that the woman did have some sales experience as well as a college education, and she was very nice. I felt like a colossal jerk, especially since the other guys never showed, and I didn't have any hot opportunities for her. To make amends, I gave her an unused show badge I had, and I invited her to scope out the convention and introduce herself to some people.

In the end, I didn't get that contract from those clients, but I did get a huge lecture about my expense report back at the office. None of my Plan B efforts throughout the experience worked, and the whole situation spiraled from bad to worse until it just couldn't get any more awful – or awkward. But all was not lost, because I learned a few things along the way that have come in handy since: I never try to buy contracts with booze and burlesque, I never judge a book by its cover, and I never carry business cards anywhere except the trade show floor. I also make it a point to always have dinner, just in case I run into those guys again.

— Doug Ritrown, sales manager, Hulitmann & Associates Inc., Miami