10542 Victory Blvd.
(213) 763-3090
I'm a druggie whose addiction can only be satisfied by the sight and scent
of female flesh on tight bodies, preferably in vast numbers and assorted
shapes, sizes, and hues.
Is it possible to OD on wimminz? I know you can go into sensory overload
and sit glazed and dazed in your seat for a few moments, but soon every true
perv is ready for more.
It was 1pm Saturday. The night before had been filled with all forms of
debauchery: leering, groping, being groped, talkin nasty, and wishful thinking.
I'd had my fix and it would be days before I needed another injection of
babia majora.
Or so you'd think.
For several years now I'd only driven by the 'Girls! Girls! Girls!' sign
painted on the front of 'Hollywood A-Go-Go': a hole-in-the-wall bar on Victory
Blvd where Burbank becomes N Hollywood. That it was nowhere near Hollywood
always made me a bit suspicious: obviously they were trying to make you believe
it was a class joint.
The sign caused a stirring that reminded me I'm always in the mood to look
at beautiful wimminz and my wallet assured me it was in the budget. This
place sold liquor, so at best these would be bikini-clad wimminz, but hey
- I have enough imagination for any ten people. Considering the feel of the
joint from the outside, I might need it.
I pulled into the lot and had a flashback to my days in the Midwest: the
parking lot was paved but still gave me the impression of a pot-hole pocked
gravel & mud mix, set off by the occasional broken bottle. Entering through
the back door, I was expecting the worst: somebody's mother - maybe even
grandmother - showing off her stretch marks and wrinkles to a bunch of drunken
slobs.
BTDT. EWWWWWWW!!!
Just inside the door was a uni-sex one-holer that lived up to it's British
label: Water Closet. No ugly odors, but I've seen nicer loo's in old gas
stations.
Once my eyes adjusted, the first thing I spotted was a tiny flash of crimson
barely large enough to keep the beautiful long-legged brunette it adorned
from being sent up-river.
SHAZAAM! Not a stretch mark in sight and definitely NOT a grandmother!
My mental checklist ticked off her assets. 5'10" in heels. Auburn mane flowing
to mid-back. Slender but too curvaceous to be called willowy. Not one, not
three, but two well-proportioned breasts testing the tensile strength of
the bikini top. She turned around and my eyes zoomed to one of my biggest
weaknesses: a delicious butt barely covered by her t-back.
This gal was a solid 8 on anyone's scale, and a 9 on mine [I've got a thing
for brunettes :)].
She smiled at me in greeting and asked if I'd like a drink.
WOW! This is the WAITRESS? What the hell do the DANCERS look like?
I asked her for something non-alchoholic and she gave me the list: ICED TEA!
YEA! She grabbed a bunch of quarters from the cash register and started sticking
them in a machine on the floor.
Oh yea, class joint.
While she was playing the libation slot machine, I looked around the room
and took in the decor. Yep, it reeked of corner dive. Two pool tables occupied
about a third of the 60' x 70' room. A U-shaped bar jutted out enough to
make room for the 8' square 'stage' that was raised a foot above the bar
floor. The 'stage' sported a pole that was way off to one side: it was the
only place to anchor it to the low ceiling. Between the bar and the 'stage'
was a path just wide enough for the bartender to serve and stay off the platform.
I breathed a mental sigh and thought, if nothing else I could look at the
waitress.
She brought me my can of Lipton Iced Tea and offered me a glass. I turned
it down with a shudder: visions of rampant bacteria danced in my head. The
charge: $2.75.
Hmmmm.. No cover, 12 ozs of tea for 2/3 what I pay at the nude clubs. At
least I wasn't going to go broke.
The silence was broken as a new song started on the jukebox. I was looking
around for a dancer when the 'waitress' took the stage and began swaying
erotically to the music.
Hoookay: dancer doubles as waitress. Yep, class joint.
The curtains parted to the left of the 'stage' and a lovely blonde came out
of the back room. She'd painted on a black bikini using a half of a 1-oz
bottle of Testors enamel. Her t-back had 'suspenders' and she wore a vest
over the top, but there was plenty of cleavage exposed. Her tush was every
bit as magnificient as the other lass. Although not as tall as the brunette,
like 'my waitress', she had all the parts in the right places: another solid
8!
The brunette ended her set, there was a break song, then the blonde took
the stage. The puddle of drool beneath my chin became a lake: these bikini-clad
lovelies were more erotic and enticing than their birthday-suited sisters
at the nude clubs!
By the end of her dance, I'd become accustomed enough to the sight of these
lovely ladies that I could pry my eyes away from them and take stock of my
surroundings. There was an older couple at the bar chatting and doing damage
to a pitcher of beer. Opposite me was a large gent watching the dancers.
A few seats to his right sat two guys in their mid-50's downing a couple
of long-necks and talking to the dancers. Another couple were shooting pool
and ignoring the stage show.
By now, you're probably wondering why I even bothered to write about this
place. It sounds a bit boring except of course that there were two beautiful
nearly-nekked wimminz swaying to the music outside anyone's reach.
That was my impression before I realized what made this place so unusual.
Everyone was totally relaxed. This place was the fictional Cheers where everybody
knows your name and they're all friends. The dancers chat with the customers
while shakin their thang, talking about what they did the night before, their
plans for later in the day, etc. During one dancer's set, the dancer-now-waitress
would do bar business directly in front of the stage. No one complained:
most people didn't even notice. When the two gents with the long-necks took
off and the ladies both said their goodbyes like they were old friends who'd
stopped by to visit.
I kept looking around for Cliff Claven.
The HMS in this place is actually the HMC, or High Mileage Cooler. It has
a flat top that gives the dancer a place to lay back and put her head on
the bar next to the customer. No touching means zero mileage, but sitting
next to that cooler you can at least get a close-up view of these tasty ladies.
The seat by the HMC now vacant, I changed barstools and settled back for
some light-weight perving. Introductions were made all around: the brunette
was Ginger, the blonde was Bambi, and I was Thumpin, er... The guy to my
left introduced himself as well: a regular that always has trouble explaining
to his wife why he smelled of cigarette smoke after going to the bar he didn't
tell her about.
She wasn't the understanding type: the truth would never do.
I sensed my duty as a fellow male and came to his rescue, passing on Bob
Smythe's advice: stop at the Texaco on the way home and spill a bunch of
gas on your clothes.
He seemed to think there was a better solution.
What did he know: he didn't even wear pajama bottoms.
Ginger took the stage. The long-legged lass did her best to tittilate and
reached her goal with me. She moved over to the HMC and lay back, her hair
splaying out like an auburn fan. As she squirmed about for the enjoyment
of the gents across the bar, we began to talk about how her parents don't
know she's dancing and would never understand, how dancing had paid for her
college, her car, her apartment, and untold other little things.
I tried hard to not stare at her boobs.
Ok, so sue me! I didn't try hard at all: I just blatantly oogled.
As she lay there showing off her ass-ets to the guys across the way, I showed
her pictures of my sons.
There's something kinda weird about a dancer laying down on a cooler, scissoring
her legs back and forth, all the while holding pictures of two perfect boys
in the air and making the appropriate approval sounds.
She moved back to the dance floor and my compadre remarked, 'Her boyfriend
is a lucky man.' I replied, 'No - we're the lucky ones. We only get to see
her smiling face: he gets to see all the rest."
She stopped dead in her tracks and gave me the strangest look before she
started laughing.
I promised myself just one more tea and one more round of dances then I'm
outta there. Three promises later I headed for the door.
My new friend and I shook hands and I stood up. Bambi was on the HMC and
gave me a big hug. Ginger was standing where she'd been when I came in and
gave me a full body hug [woof...]. Both wished me a safe trip and asked me
to come back real soon.
Talk about the personal touch.
If you're in the mood for some light pervin', I can't recommend this place
enough - at least during the day. No lapdances, no groping, but no cover
and cheap drinks combined with pleasant, intelligent, sensuous dancers that
could work in even the best nude clubs makes for a good time.
Just remember to pee before you stop in...
"...where everybody knows your name..."
