Think you belong on Madison Avenue? If you think you've got the right stuff
to come up with a catchy slogan for a strip club, this is your opportunity.
Come up with a great slogan for the new nude club
Frisky Kitty in Tarzana
and win a VIP pass!
To enter this contest, simply email your slogan to Frisky Kitty at
j777@zbone.me.
First Prize: Frisky Kitty VIP card, good for one year of free admission and
free drinks (2). All valid entries will be given a unique ID number, which
can be redeemed for 5 free admission passes at Frisky Kitty when they open.
Good luck to all and if your slogan is chosen, perhaps you will see it in
one of their ads.
Contest Rules and Fine
Print:
Officials at Frisky Kitty, located at 18454 Oxnard St,
Tarzana, will be the sole judge of this contest and will choose the winning
slogan that they deem to be best for the club. Their decision is final.
Submissions are accepted and recorded according to the date and time of the
received email by Frisky Kitty. If the same slogan is suggested, the submission
with the earlier date and time will be recorded. The winner will be notified
by email and the winning slogan will be announced on this website. In order
to receive the VIP pass or free passes, each participant must present their
unique ID code provided to them to Frisky Kitty. In the event that none of
the slogans are acceptable, one winner will be chosen at random by Frisky
Kitty. By entering this contest, you agree to the following terms. You hereby
unconditionally and irrevocably transfer and assign Frisky Kitty and it's
affiliates, subsidiaries, successors and assigns, in perpetuity, the royalty-free
right and license to use, modify, adapt, publish, translate, create derivative
works from, incorporate into other works, distribute, perform, display and
otherwise exploit the slogan you send, in all languages and throughout the
universe, in any form, media or technology now known or hereafter devised.
You acknowledge and expressly agree that the slogan may be used by Frisky
Kitty and its affiliates, subsidiaries, successors and assigns, for any purpose
whatsoever, including, without limitation, developing, manufacturing and
marketing products using such slogans, and you hereby waive the right to
receive any financial or other consideration in connection with such information,
including, without limitation, credit. You give Frisky Kitty the right to
trademark or servicemark the winning slogan for it's own use. Frisky Kitty
also reserved the right not to use the winning slogan. All prizes awarded
do not have any cash value and cannot be exchanged for other products or
services. Z Bone and zbone.me does not control the contest judging, distribution
of prizes or any other aspect of this contest and makes no representations
about the suitability or reliability of Frisky Kitty or this contest. In
no event shall Z Bone and zbone.me be liable for any special, indirect or
consequential damages or any damages whatsoever resulting from this
contest.
By JULIA RUBINER
My three favorite words in the English language are "girls, girls, girls."
I love strippers. And I'm not shy about indulging this passion. I long ago
got over being the only chick at the rail or in the booth.
Some of my acquaintances and more than one dancer have asked me if I've "danced,"
the generally preferred euphemism for "stripped." The answer is no, though
a club owner here and there has asked if I'd like to. It's strictly a fantasy
career for me, like being a rock singer (my day job, in fact, involves writing
about rock singers; similarly, I'm editing a book on dancers).
I could be a dancer - I'm an attractive girl with a good figure and a canny
sense of rhythm. As I said, I enjoy the club milieu. I'm also an exhibitionist,
I like to flirt and I love money.
Then why not dance? The reasons are many. For starters, I'm 36 - a good ten
years older than most dancers. This means I don't look particularly spectacular
under black lights and may not have the stamina required of long shifts on
eight-inch heels (I've tried some of those moves in my much more modest
platforms, resulting in quadricep burn and lower-back tweakage).
Moreover, my body is not perfect. There's nothing I like better than a club
that extols all body types. My boyfriend (also a fan of dishabiliment) is
often more attracted to the dancers with a bit of meat on their bones than
the girls with the pointy tushies. I find myself almost always throwing my
cash away on these flawlessly petite specimens. It's not only the complete
lack of jiggle that mesmerizes me - it's also the absences of bruises, scars
or blemishes of any sort. These girls are living dolls. I wouldn't want to
get up onstage as anything less. (Even if I could forge those parts of steel
- a big if - I've never shaved my legs without a nick in my entire life.)
Another reason I could not be a dancer: I'm a prima donna. For those of you
blissfully ignorant of such outrages, the great majority of dancer dressing
rooms are a scandal. They usually amount to little more than the ladies'
restroom - no mirrored vanities, no lockers for expensive costumes, no room
to change said expensive costumes. Most of the time, in fact, these ladies'
restrooms are not even places you (the customer) would like to rest in.
And that's just the facilities - imagine some of the patrons. I've put the
whammy on more than one guy who would not be construed as conventionally
handsome; but let's face it, if I'm gonna be all over someone like a cheap
suit, he must be appealing by some stretch of the imagination. Most strip
club clients are not (even in Hollywood). And the first one of them who said,
"No, I'm not interested in a lapdance with you, so get your skeevy ass outta
here" - or perhaps worse - would send me rushing for the exit, self-esteem
beyond repair.
Finally, I don't think I have the nerve to be a dancer. There's a mighty
stigma attached to it. It's one I greatly object to but it's there nonetheless
and I don't think I'd want to be a crusader to stamp it out. (I do, however,
know some courageous dancers who are "out" about their work. They inspire
me like few people I've known.)
About now you're wondering, "Why doesn't this bitch get to the point? If
she were a dancer what?" Just wanted to put that pesky "Well, why aren't
you a dancer?" question to rest first. In other words, keep your pants on
- I'm getting to it.
First and foremost, if I were a dancer, I'd dance. I would not swoop and
swirl aimlessly about the stage as if in a dream. I'd eschew the techno and
metal for defy-you-not-to-shake-your-booty funk and hip-hop. Even if I spent
most of my time on the floor giving laps - which is where the money is, of
course - I'd kick some serious ass onstage. I'd be Nadia Comaneci on the
pole, and I'd work only at clubs with nice, big poles. I'd train for this
career as I would any other.
If I were a dancer, I'd pay tribute to my burlesque foremothers. I'd amass
a collection of heart-stopping bump 'n' grind music (I have yet to see a
dancer assay that classic "The Stripper"). I'd wear wigs and hats. I'd don
feather boas and corsets and stockings and garters and gauntlets. I'd dismantle
multi-piece getups in tantalizing stages. I'd mix up my personae. Among the
likely candidates: Ginger (red wig, skintight evening gown, tasteful pumps);
Mary Anne (braids, tied-at-the-waist gingham shirt, tear-away capris); Gilligan
(just kidding - though the sailor thing certainly has potential); Morgan
(Le Fey, that is - think Elvira with more kink and less camp).
I've seen girls dress up like cowpokes and dance to something country. I've
seen girls dress up like cops and dance to something intimidating. I've seen
girls dress up like disco dollies and dance to something '70s. I even saw
a girl dress up like Scully (complete with badge, flashlight and gun) and
dance to the "X-Files" theme. And though she's a much more common sight,
my heart always warms to see the Catholic school girl.
On less ambitious days, I'd at least stick with an unusual name. I believe
opera heroines are an untapped source of these: Tosca, Violetta, Brunhilde,
Cho-Cho, Buttercup (I do know a dynamite Carmen). And where are the girls
of myth? Aphrodite (but certainly not Venus), Athena, Daphne, Eurydice,
Persephone. Or classic literature? Ophelia, Isolde, Lenore, Francesca, Penelope.
Even our favorite TV and film characters have gone largely unexploited: Gidget,
Glinda, Ellie Mae, Wednesday, Seven of Nine. I also harbor a fondness for
the retro names: Betty, Selma, Hannah, Sadie, Eloise. But I'd absolutely
stay away from nouns and place names (Topaz, Sugar, River, Savannah, Dallas,
Dakota) unless they were truly off the beaten path (Produce, Effluvia, Corsage,
Castaic, Livonia, Tuscany).
If I were a dancer I'd play up to the female customers. If a pretty girl
sat at my rail, you better believe I'd give her the full treatment. On occasion,
I've noticed a dancer paying more attention to me than to the men present
(more frequently, though, the converse is true). To be sure, men like to
see two women in a sexually suggestive posture - it's good for business and
the savvy gals know this. But I always manage to convince myself "Gosh, she
really likes me," which is the essence of a good dance, lap or otherwise.
One of the best experiences of my life was when a fabulous dancer yelped
with delight to see me approach her stage, then lavished her attention on
me. She even insisted on giving me a free lap, silencing my protestations
with a steely "I want to get on top of you, so take off your coat and let's
go." Now that's entertainment. Needless to say, I'd love to rock some girl's
world like she rocked mine.
In fact, it's all about the ability to rock someone's world, whether you're
a stripper or a rock star. It's all about the unconditional adoration, however
illusory. If I were a stripper, I'd eat up the attention with a knife and
fork. But I'd use my powers for good, not evil. If I were a stripper, you'd
be one of my regulars - I'd be your girl, girl, girl.
Julia Rubiner is a free-lance writer and editor of the work
in progress Taking It Off: 13 Strippers Bare All. Her essay "If I
Were a Stripper" originally appeared in the 1999 issue of The Used Bin,
a yearly journal of ruminations on popular culture.
