Nothing is more pathetic than the plaintive plea of the PL for pieces of info on an ATF who has disappeared. The helpless one mourns for her. He wonders why she failed to leave at her club the detailed directions on where to find her, addressed, I guess, to "the geeky overweight dude with the funny-shaped dick." I laugh at such a forlorn one: Ha. Sorry ass, he misses the point. In the real world, there may be only one GF for him, and all the other women may spurn him. But in the SC world, there are dozens of women in every club, and all of them want to be the one for him. That's the great thing about dancers: They are replaceable. But this guy, at that club he likes, six months later the other dancers still call him "Flopsy's customer," or whatever her name was.
So what was I doing taking a Saturday afternoon trip to the Playpen ISO clues regarding a dancer named Tanya whom I hadn't seen in almost a year? Damn. In the presence of a great lap-dancer, I regress. I devolve into a protozoan PL. And Tanya was a sensational lap-dancer. . . a voluptuous, affectionate, sensuous, nasty darling with the most wide-open . . . okay, nobody's interested in the details.
I doubt anybody will believe this, but I've spent more at the Playpen in the last two years than at any club except the Jet. Last year, I'd go there two or three times a month, looking for India or Tanya and usually finding Kai, a low-mileage cutie who by persistence and force of personality and character managed to rake in more of my cash than almost anybody anywhere. In fact, the only dancer who's surpassed her mark this whole year is Ginger, who's grabbed something below my belt (again . . . well, you know what) and taken it into another dimension. But by the end of 2001, it was time to pass on to other Playpen prospects, so I had some other dances through the winter. By spring, the negatives were drowning the positives. Yes, with the right girl, this club was the best value in town, at about $9 a minute for SRI-level nude laps—and none of the SRI-type rush-rush. Finding the right girl, though, was the challenge: Too many low-mileage, even no-mileage, types. And, with the club's high dance prices, it cost a lot to find out. Also, too many a chunky, homely dancer parading around as if she were hot shit, showing about as much interest on stage as you'd expect from someone who's stuck working in this place for a clientele that's got even less respect for her than she's got for them. And finally, if I did find someone who was enjoyable company, she'd be gone in a few months, or, if she was anything but Latina, weeks. And now really finally, the awful "music" they played was just too fucking loud!! I deserted.
What you gain from my devolution is that, six months after last setting foot in the club, I can file my "situation normal" report. No need for anyone to investigate further. (Sorry, Louis and Senseless, that I couldn't keep you from that fate.) I walked into the place, atmosphere wasn't too bad: not too dark, not even too loud. But it was the same chunky, homely dancers. Well, actually, they were different chunky, homely dancers, but no matter. One, who was a little cute, sat down next to me. She looked vaguely familiar. She said she remembered me, that she was a waitress here some time back. She grinned knowingly at me, "You're Tanya's customer, aren't you?" Fucking great. I saw Kai 10 times here and Tanya 4, how come I'm Tanya's customer? "She hasn't been here in at least six months." Well, you can guess the rest: I wound up getting a lap dance from the waitress. Something about getting a dance from someone I knew in another capacity, as if my teeth-cleaner suddenly took off her clothes and plopped down on top of me (and if you could see this Vietnamese teeth-cleaner, you'd understand). And of course you know I got a waitress lap; can't fault her, she was nice, she tried, but she was barely giving Kai mileage and she was no Kai.
There was some of the afternoon left. I knew The Score was kind of a half-sister club to the Playpen; there was a possibility that a Playpen dancer might wind up there. But was I really going to The Score? You bet: Further devolution. I was now a bacterial idiot, a pansy-assed prokaryote. I was so disgusted with The Score the last time I went there, I threw all the passes they gave me into the trash, so now I'd have to pay their 20-fucking-dollar daytime (!) admission fee, plus some $4 daytime (!) parking charge. I wanted to keep my visit to $25, so that left $1 stage tip for some lucky girl.
The Score is the "dump" to which the title of this review refers. Now, I know some of you readers who like to take your girlfriend to clubs, or who are the interior decorator types, you're going to say, "What? That place is beautiful! Management has spent a bundle making a strip club that looks like a Hyatt hotel lobby." Right, and we're paying out the ass for it up front too (and I would've paid out the ass for it, but I'd eaten cheap for breakfast and lunch, so I couldn't manage it). To any real PL, this place is a vast wasteland, a landfill way too sanitary, with few, moderately attractive but attitude-challenged girls offering little-sister lap dances.
But okay, to the day at hand. On this day, there were three dancers in attendance. There was a kind-of Asian-appearing, mid-height, nice-figured, not-bad-looking number who would not have been the least attractive dancer on display anywhere else. There was a light-skinned maybe-Latina girl with an interesting face and a medium-snazzy B-cup body. And on the stage there was Samantha. . . . Now, there are bodies—nice ones, sweet ones, smokin' ones, even the occasional perfect one, like Sharon's at DVNH on mini-Zcon Friday—there are bodies, as I say, and there is The Body, and I'm not talking about no damn wrestler and certainly no GODdamn politician. I can't define The Body for anyone else. But for me, I want some weight on her, so I don't feel like I'm flopping a rally monkey around on my lap. I want something like 130 lbs or so at 5-6, And I want it distributed with a high arm/leg-to-tit ratio. Tits are something a girl should have, not something to which the rest of the girl is attached. With the right curves in the right places otherwise, smaller can be better. Otherwise, ideally, no cellulite, but no muscular hardbody either: soft is the word where female is concerned. Anyway, back to Samantha, there have not been too many times when my eyes have popped right out of my head and gone rolling across the SC floor. There was Sadie at the Jet last year, and . . . so maybe this was just the second time. They had to turn up the house lights and send a flunkie to help me recover them. But really, no shit, no 20-fucking-dollar daytime admission fee, this was one of the most amazing creatures I'd ever seen on a stage. This girl was mid-20s, 5-6, and she had The Body, A-cup version. This girl stood on that stage with those perfect legs and the high heels and the feathers and shit and the whole nine yards of tulle and she had Stripper written all over her in a script that was all class and no sleaze. Oh yeah, and her face wasn't too bad, either, or that auburn-tinged brown hair that she could, and did, wear any which way, as if it mattered. She moved gracefully and lasciviously, she smiled fetchingly. After a rotation in the second row, I approached the stage and apologetically offered this goddess my dollar of fealty, which she graciously accepted.
Between the rotations, Samantha had actually come over to me for a little chat and an invitation to the dance, which I turned down. WHAT!? $40 for the waitress and nothing for Aphrodite incarnate? Well, there was that $25 goal, and . . . Right. After she left, little q took a trip upstairs and beat some sense into my cerebrum. Okay, okay, calm down, don't let the blood go to your head; we'll have ourselves a dance. After the second rotation, Samantha was busy, so I got a dance from the snazzy maybe-Latina, whose "name" was Spackle . . . no, Sparkle; right, Sparkle, I remember 'cause I was getting her confused afterward with Dazzle (but that's the girl at Platinum). She had this athletically sexy stage dance, which she had at some point decided would make a cool lap dance. Ouch! Oof! No! . . . And what's more, she kept all the goods out of easy pawing or slobbering-upon range. Another Score loser.
All of which brought me to my encounter with one of the more pathetic of PLs. So I'm sitting there, and I'm thinking, I know about Sparkle, and that guy over there knows about Aphrodite, I mean Samantha; we both got just one dance, so that means trouble, and maybe we can each keep the other from future mistakes. At this point, I initiate activity that betrays too much time reading Z-Bone. I forget that, while you and I brazenly share information in the safety of anonymity, there are guys who don't want anyone who might potentially know anyone they might know know that they're in a strip club. They don't even want to know they're there. So I walk up to this guy, and I say, "How was she?" "Oh, okay," he laughs in a kind of embarrassed way. "Yeah," I reply helpfully, "Mine was too, the one in red, just okay." He doesn't seem interested. Well, that's disappointing news. Samantha is apparently just another Sparkle in my eye. I return to my seat. Aphrodite returns to Mr. Don't Ask Don't Tell and they go off and do another four dances together. WHAT!? Hey, dud (pron. "dud"), if she was just okay, why are you doing another four dances with her?! Like, I need to be told, right?? What the fuck? Do I look like a fucking cop!? I'm too fucking old to be a cop! So, what? You want to keep her under wraps? Want to keep her income low enough so next time we come here neither one of us will find her and we'll both be stuck with Spackle? Damn. I decamped. I mean, I walked out the front door.
By now, I have enough sense to get a schedule from any attractive dancer I have the shortest conversation with. So, I was going back on a goddam Friday, when there wouldn't be any competition. The next Friday, of course . . . when I wound up spending more on this dancer in a single visit than on any dancer west of COI in the past year. It doesn't take much time sitting with her to realize this is one smart, sweet girl, with an air of promise . . . and a taste for moolah. So, here's how it goes: First off, she doesn't remember me from last Saturday. Not a good sign: I mean, what the hell? I spent my last fucking dollar on her and she can't remember it six days later! But okay, we do the nude thing. At the outset, she says, "Now, you sit here like so and let me do all the work." That's also a bad sign. But we get about 20 seconds in, and I think, "Whoa," and she says, "Where did you come from?" We've got a match. When I try to push it some, it's "oh, the cameras" or "oh, the floaters." So, that's okay, I know The Score: this club is, best I can tell, a mileage-challenged environment, and Samantha is comfortable with that. She's a little disappointing in that regard for a nude-lap club; she won't satisfy anyone who needs COI-level mileage, and she falls short of the standard even at Platinum. But she does one amazingly fucking sensuous lap, and that body is a heartstopping handful. When I think of the Jet instead of COI as the point of comparison, it's, okay, she'd be in the better half mileage-wise, and she easily matches Jet sensuality paragons like Sabrina and Mary Jane. Man, this could get expensive. With any luck, she'll disappear, like Tanya. (But for the next month, her schedule is Tuesdays and a couple other evenings a week, then back to days.)
Sincerely (if not yours),
qb "Samantha's customer now" g |
