Richard Thruster

The OLCC sees no reason to deny Stars a license to operate in Tualatin.  It looks like Stars has made some pretty significant concessions to get the license.  Those include restrictions on the number of drinks a patron may order after midnight as well as their alcohol content, and the hiring of security both inside and outside the building.  Much of this seems to be based on incidents at their location in Bend.  Having visited both the Salem and Beaverton locations, I can report I’ve never felt unsafe and I’ve never worried about my car.  I can’t say that about every place I’ve been in town.

The neighbors are going to take one last swing at keeping the bar out of their neighborhood, but it looks like this is pretty much a done deal.  Given that Stars has chased most of their local A-level talent away in the last six months, it will be interesting to see how they do.

It’s been a few months since I’ve been out.  My last trip was actually to Stars in late January.  It was the night of the NFL  conference championships back in January.  I needed to blow off some steam and I wanted to get back in the swing of the blog.  You can see how that worked out.

Anyway, I wanted to see some prime girls and have a good time.  Dad is right.  It doesn’t get any better than Stars for exactly that.  Do they screen their girls better?  Do they just have the pick of the litter, so to speak?  Dunno.  Maybe girls just gravitate toward particular clubs based on whatever.  Who knows.  What I know is I like my girls to look like they could pose for Playboy.  There are only a few places in town that can guarantee that.

So, Stars, right?  I went in, paid my $5 cover and was handed a card good for free admission the next time I came around.  Interesting.  Perhaps business is down and they’re trying to get the fellas back out.  Dropping the cover for repeat customers is a good way to go.  I turned the corner and walked into a club that was half empty.  On a Saturday night.  On a Saturday night after football and after a Blazer game.  Half empty!  What in the hell?

I took my spot at the rail of the main stage.  They had a big screen pulled down between two of the side stages.  They’d been showing the Blazer game, which had long since ended.  Now I got to watch that Talkin’ Ball show with the sound off.  I hate that.  Not the show.  I love the show.  Never miss it.  But I hate when clubs leave the TV on after a sporting event and force me to watch a talk show or, worse, an infomercial on mute.  What is the point?

I sat through a few sets when it became apparent that the girls who normally worked Stars had been replaced by tattooed Suicide Girls.  Every girl in there was tatt’d up.  And we’re not just talking tramp stamps.  One of the girls had garters tattooed on her legs.  Another had piercings all through her face.  Tattoos on breasts.  Necks.  Hands and wrists.  Freaking everywhere.  On a Saturday night!  We’re talking prime-time!  And this is what they came up with.

I lasted a few songs then split.  I went back to one of my old stand-bys to try and wash the images out of my head.

I ran into girl I knew at another club and we sat and caught up for a bit.  I told her about my experience at Stars.  She told me there had been some changes at the club in the last few months of 2008.  According to her, they were jerking with house fees and charging girls an arm and a leg to work there.  So their top talent left for greener pastures.  True?  I dont know.  But judging by the lack of talent in there, I wouldn’t be surprised.

So fast forward to this last Saturday night.  I wanted to give them another shot.  Supposedly the house fee thing had been straightened out.  It’s been a few months.  Girls have worked their way back over there.  Afterall, its freaking Stars!

I pulled in and found the parking lot full.  A good sign.  There were a couple of little kids pools outside the club.  They were probably wrestling in oil or pudding or something.  Again.  Fine.  Clubs keep that stuff to the weeknights for the fetish crowd.  Kind of like shower night.  Again, it’s Saturday night.  Primetime!

I made my way to the cashier.  She handed me a raffle ticket and mentioned there would be a drawing for something later on in the evening.  She kept talking about other stuff happening that night.  Evidently it was some sort of Spring Break kick-off.  I finally asked about the cover.

$8.

Eight bucks?  That’s jack shack pricing!  The D2 just down the street is offering $2 off their $5 cover just for mentioning their ad in Willy Week.  And these guys want $8?  It better be worth it.

I walked in to the club and found they’d decorated with some sort of cruise ship theme.  There were blue ribbons around the exterior of the room and beach chairs on each stage.

I headed to the back of the room to check out a red head on stage.  Oh man, I dig redheads.  I parked at the rail, put my money up, and waited for the magic to start.

She made her way over to me and asked if I wanted to be her captain.  I smiled.  She smiled back, leaned over, got right in my face, and rubbed my nose with hers’.  Not my favorite move in the world, but OK.  She writhed around for a bit.  The couple to my left seemed to enjoy it.

The second song was when it got weird.  And annoying.  My girl enjoys contact, right?  So she drops her bottom and comes over to me.  She turns around, lifts up her foot and goes to rest it on my shoulder.  Only she misses and kicks me right in the side of the head with her 4″ stripper shoe.  She doesn’t notice.  As she stumbles, I figure out she’s drunk.  She finds her balance, puts her leg back up on my shoulder and starts to rub it along my face.  This is how I find out she hasn’t shaved her legs in a day or two.  Gross.

The song mercifully comes to an end, she saks me for a dance, and I decline.  She makes her way off-stage, and the next girl comes up.  She’s a brunette.  Also intoxicated.  And tatted up.  I gave her a courtesy dollar and headed back to the video poker.

During my walk, I note that the room is again half-full.  No one is sitting at the rails.  I take a look around at the girls on stage and they all look worn.  This is supposed to be college night and I can count on three fingers the number of girls who could pass for under 25.  This doesn’t include the cocktail waitresses who were all hotter than the girls on stage.  One in particular was a petite girl with dark skin and black hair.  She was running around in a black body suit.  Oh man.  She could have had whatever she wanted.  She just never asked.  Why?  Because she was a server.

After a few songs and a round of dollar dances (ten songs in ten minutes…a girl comes to your table and wiggles around for a minute for a buck then moves on…the girls generally hate this promotion…) I made my way to the main stage to see a tall brunette.  She’s one of the three who could pass for a college girl.  I took my place at the rail along with a couple of other guys.  It didn’t take too long to figure out she was intoxicated as well.  She stumbled around the stage, occassionally stopping, sitting down on the rail, and leaning back into the guys.  When she leaned back into me, I could feel her body heat through my sweatshirt, her heart was racing and sweat was pouring off her.  I felt awful for her.

She stumbled through her set and rushed to the back.

I was ready to leave when Isis came to one of the side stages.  Along with the brunette, Isis is one of the few who could pass for under-25.  I’ve seen her in there everytime I’ve visited.  For some reason she’ll never say a word to me and barely acknowledges my presence.  Why?  Dunno.  I do know she’s hot and I’d definitely get a dance from her if she’d just ask.  But she never does.

As I made my break for the door, the DJ announced a wet t-shirt contest was coming up along with oil wrestling.  I just shook my head.  How the mighty have fallen.  I’m afraid I’m done with Stars for a while.  If I want a b-list fix, there are places that are a lot cheaper and a lot closer to home.

Reader Brian M made a pretty good suggestion this morning.

On the old Usenet group alt.sex.strip-clubs, the rule was: “stage name, club, act – pick two”.

I honestly hadn’t thought about it, but it makes sense.

It’s not like I go into these places looking for trouble.  Or to suck on some young thing’s breasts.  But if the opportunity is going to present itself, then who am I to blow against the wind, you know?

Bottom line, from here on out I’ll try to stick to the two-out-of-three rule.  I think it’s probably best for everyone.

Back in September, Reader A. asked me to stop into Spyce over in Old Town.  I made it in back in the Fall sometime, can’t remember when.  Had a great evening with a girl who’s name I already forget.  It was actually as enlightening as it was low-key.  She knew I wouldn’t be buying any dances, but since I was one of only two or three customers in the place, she decided to give me her undivided attention.

She was pretty cute.  Late-twenties, early-thirties.  She had a kid.  We talked about kids, dating customers, different clubs around town, and a couple of douchebags who eventually showed up.  She said despite the fact said douches have more money than God, they’d all end up spending as much as me during the evening.  Yet they thought they were someone as did the manager, so off she went to the champegne room to entertain.  Oh well.

I’ve always wanted to go back there if only to meet up with her again.  In the couple times I’ve been back, she hasn’t been there.  So I guess she’s lost to the ages.  Too bad.

For a while there Spyce was all over the radio talking about their Friday night steak and lobster dinner.  It’s $10 and surely better than $10 worth of Taco Bell, no?  So I decided to check it out after work this past Friday.

Susan at River City Kitty does a much better job describing the interior than I.

The interior of the bar was pretty nice and very nightclubby. The stage sits a mere six inches off of the ground with poles very close to the corners and table seating rather than a rail around the stage; guess what this means? Nightly meetings twixt stiletto heel and customer body parts. They have got to raise that stage or build a rail around it before someone gets an accidental stripper-induced concussion.

The handful of times I’ve been in now, I’m still not sure what to make of the stage set-up.  First off, no one is sure where to put their money.  I like to just set it up on the rail and let the girl take it.  There being no rail, there’s nowhere for me to put it.  I finally figured out I had to just throw it on-stage.  Fine, I guess, but it’s still confusing.  Of course when you’re the only guy sitting at the stage, it’s probably not that confusing after all.

The kitchen is located in a separate room in the back of the club.  It’s basically a lunch counter with a half dozen bar stools.  As I entered, there was a meeting of…ummmm….let’s call them entrepreneurs….at one end of the counter.  I went to the other end and sat down.

“Steak and lobster?” the cook asked.

“Yes sir,” I replied.

He asked me how I took my steak.  I advised medium-rare, and he threw it on the broiler.

I went back into the main room to get my beer and found Selinda taking the stage.  She stopped me in my tracks.  Like Victoria at Pallas, Selinda got my crank turning.  She reminds me of an older version of my senior prom date.  Oh my.  Short red hair.  Nice butt.  Probably 5′3″ or 5′4″.  And the eyes.  Oh my.  She could have had anything she wanted.

Well, almost.  After three songs and lots of attention, it was time to go enjoy my steak.

It’s actually not too bad.  It was a nice strip steak served with a small lobster tail.  Baked potato with all the trimmings.  What the hell else do you want?  And unlike the Acropolis, it’s not served to you whi;e you’re sitting at the rail.  I suppose they could bring it out to the main room, but then you’d have girls descending on you asking you to buy them dinner.  And really, I don’t want to sit and watch you eat.

So I sat back in the back and watched Utah kick the holy heck out of Alabama.  That was kind of fun to see!

After I finished dinner, I rushed back out to the stage to watch Selinda .  And again, she made me feel 17.  Again.  The brush up against my cheek.  The hands rubbing my thighs.  The hot breath on my neck.  It was quite awesome.

Again, Selinda isn’t for everyone.  But she’ll definitely have me back in Spyce and soon.

The other girl working happy hour was Athena.  She’s a taller blonde and much more full-contact than Selinda.  Athena wasn’t on stage 30-seconds before she was straddling me, bouncing up and down, and doing a really awful fake moan.  A complete turn-off.  I’m all for whorish strippers and girls who make like they’ll put-out even if they won’t.  But this kind of act just doesn’t do it for me.  But like a trooper, I put up with it.

When she turned around and whipped her blonde hair around, I caught a glimpse of a tattoo on her neck that brought a whole flood of memories back.  It was a tattoo of a $100 bill.  It was the same tattoo I’d seen on a girl at Pop-A-Top back earlier in the fall…

Oh, Pop-A-Top! Man.  A friend of mine aptly described that place as scuzzy.  It’s out on Columbia right around 63rd.  It’s a combination bar and jack shack.  The girls spend their whole time on stage trying to get you to “go next door” to this other building where there’s no alcohol and, according to one girl, no cameras.  Then she promised the experience was “guaranteed to blow your mind.”

Hey!  A codeword!  Even I know what that means.  There was no way I was going next door.  That doesn’t mean one girl in particular didn’t try.

As I was making my way toward the door, a girl came up and stopped me.  She started rubbing my belly while eventually reaching inside my shirt and squeezing my nipple.  She starts asking me if I want to go next door, so I decided to play along.  I mean the nipple thing definitely had my attention.

So we go through the negotiation.  It’s $160 to go next door and seemingly there would be no rules once we got there.  She was definitely the cutest girl in the place, so if I was gonna spend $160 on an experience that night, it would be with her.  But my big head overruled the littler one, and I excused myself.

I don’t have to tell you the girl twisting my nipple was Athena, the same girl aggressively dry-humping me at the side of the stage Friday night.  I didn’t have the heart to bring the subject up as even Spyce a rung or two up the club ladder, and I didn’t know if she wanted to be reminded.

I left after about an hour to go meet up with some friends.  The allure of Selinda, though, brought me back around 10.

By then, the club had changed.  No longer was it a lonely little spot with only two strippers working a weird stage.  By 10pm, they were charging a $5 cover and they had a fairly decent crowd.  They definitely skewed younger and clubbier.  But they were respectful for the most part, unlike the frat boy thing you see at Stars or the Dolphin.

I picked a table along one of the walls and waited to see my Selinda again.  Unfortunately she was nowhere to be found.  Instead the night shift had taken over.  They were younger, a hotter.  Lots of 8s and one 9.  Her name?  Mitzy.

She’s 24, blonde, and stacked.  She’s got a perfect body and an attitude to match.  As I took my spot at the stage, she lasered in on me and went to work.  She nibbled on my ear.  Rubbed my thighs.  Twisted my nipples.  See, this is why it’s not such a bad thing to have the stage only 6″ off the ground!  Where else in town can you get a $1 lap dance?  Nowhere!

She found me a little while later and took me back to the couches.  Only in the case of Spyce, its the arm chairs.  We made a little idle chit-chat as she curled up on my lap.  Her breasts were right in my face, and her smooth back and butt were rubbing against my arm.  I had to cop a feel.  And unlike most other dancers, she didn’t move my hand away.  Huh.  It was going to be one of those dances!

As our song started, I looked over to the bouncer.  His back was turned to us as he stood in the door.  It was obvious he wanted to give us our privacy.

Off came Mitzy’s bra, and we commenced the dance.  She rubbed her crotch against mine for what seemed like an eternity before turning around and thrusting her breasts in my face as she came around to nibble my ear.  She worked down my neck and to my chest, pausing to nibble on each nipple.

Note: I don’t know a lot, but I do know this.  If you want to know how to please your woman in bed, pay attention to the things she does to you.  This is almost always an example of what she wants done to her.  Do those things, and you’ll have a happy girl.

Clearly Mitzy enjoyed the nipple play, so at the next chance, I returned the favor.  Was her shudder real or fake or revulsion?  Couldn’t tell you.  I can say breasts were offered more than once, so that says something.

She talked me into a second song, this one involved much more nibbling and panting.  Man, she does a good job.  May I recommend Mitzy at Spyce for all your couch dance needs.

We made some more small talk at the end.  We exchanged our real names, which was kind of fun.  I told her the story of the girl I met at the D2 who had her stage name, her fake-real name and her real-real name.  She thought that was a bit much.  Maybe so, but it made for nice small talk.

My wallet freshly lightened, I left the place around midnight.  I’ll definitely be back.  Not only for the lobster, but for Mitzy.  And maybe I’ll see if I can get Selinda on the couch too.

I texted a friend of mine Wednesday afternoon to find out what he was doing to bring in the new year.  He said his plans involved getting as drunk as possible while staying home.  As fun as that sounded, I didn’t think another year with Dick Clark was going to cut it for me.  I told him my plan for 2009 involved bringing this blog back, hopefully better than ever.  What better night to bring it back, I said, than on NYE.

The only real question I had was where to begin.  Did I go out to Stars and revel with a room full of twenty-somethings and silicon strippers?  Or should I choose something a little calmer.  Perhaps emptier.

I put the question to my friend who didn’t hesitate.  Go for the lonely stripper, he said.  See how far it takes you.

Ah.  An interesting proposition.  Could I spend the stroke of midnight on a couch with a stripper.  THAT would be some story.

I spent the early part of the evening at the Winter Hawks game.  They usually do a pretty good job and games against Seattle are always entertaining.  Wednesday night was no different.  Lots of goals.  Lots of fights.  And plenty of folks hanging around having a good time.

The ultimate plan was to head over to Spyce.  I’ve been there once and figured that would be where I would find the lonliest stripper.  This was based on that one experience when I went in on a Saturday night and found two girls in the entire place and two customers.  That is a dead club.  To wet my appetite though, I hit the Hawthorne Strip first.

The Hawthorne Strip has become one of my favorite places in the last year.  It’s quiet.  It has sports on the plasma TV over the bar.  The girls are usually pretty good.  And it’s quiet.  Well, except for the music.  It’s one of those places with no dj, so the girls go over to a juke box and select their set just before hitting the stage.  There’s a fantastic sign on the front reminding girls that they’re in a rock and roll bar and maybe they should leave the emo crap at home.  Generally they stick to rock or 80s.  Either is generally fine by me.  It’s the rap that I can’t stand (*cough*Dolphin*cough*).

I parked in the back and played a little video poker while an innocent-looking brunette worked the pole in front of one guy.  In hindsight I should have parked at the rail since it turned out it was the girl’s last set of the night.  Oh well.  I finished even at poker while I waited for the evening shift to come trickling in.

I rolled over to the corner stage after a few tunes and parked in front of another brunette who I’d walked past as I came in the door.  She had hair almost all the way down to her butt.  It was something else to see.  Unfortunately her dancing style left much to be desired.  She was all frentic motion.  Like she didn’t quite know what to do with herself on stage, so she’d developed this little dance routine that she would go through.  It was like watching an endless loop.  Two times around the pole, walk to the rail, stick foot on rail, pose, walk back to corner, bend over…repeat.  So boring.

From a distance it looked like she had a couple of tattoo sleeves on her forearms.  They turned out to be sleeves from a shirt or something.  Perhaps she was hiding something else?  Or maybe it was her device so she could convince herself she wasn’t really naked while she was on stage.  Different girls use different things to get past that.  It’s interesting.

After her set ended, she lazily came over and asked if I wanted a dance.  She seemed a little off.  I declined.

Next up came a well stacked blonde.  She was solid.  Small breasts, but the rest of her looked great.  And speaking of devices to convince yourself youre not naked.  She wore this leather bondage-type top that drew attention to her breasts while covering parts of the rest.  Yeah, OK…she’s had a baby.  Big deal.  She’s far from the worst looking stripper in town.  Show it off, baby!

After her set, it was back to girl #1 and I’d had enough.

I made my way over to Spyce only to be thwarted.  Turns out every other club in town was also open and there was no parking to be found in Chinatown.  I’ll have to do my review another time.  I definitely want to check out their steak and lobster special one of these nights.  Apparently their kitchen is pretty good.

I headed back east and ended up at Sassy’s.  Not my first choice, but I didn’t really want to drive out to Beaverton or down to Milwaukie.  So Sassy’s it was.

The place was pretty full.  The usual mix of young couples and single guys.  The Vince Neil guy was back DJing.  He does a good job of keeping the girls and the music moving.  I grabbed my Coors Light and hit the stage.  First up was a petite little Asian girl.  I didn’t catch her name, but she was definitely a delight.  She was paying particular attention to an older guy back in the crowd, which was fine.  When it came my turn, she gave a fantastic show.  Great energy and enthusiasm.  You really can’t ask for anything more.

Next up was definitely the hottest blonde in the place.  She was tall and thin with a fantastic body.  Unfortunately, she hates her job.  Or at least that’s how it looked.  When she paused in front of a customer, she’d turn and stare into space.  No eye contact.  No “hi, how you doing?”  And certainly no selling dances.  Such a bummer.

Guys at the rail didn’t seem to care though.  They kept throwing money at her and she kept wanting to be somewhere else.  Blah.

Midnight arrived while the blonde was on stage.  She got into a liplock with another dancer which was intended to get the guys hot, but didn’t really seem to.  The guys with dates were all working their girls while the guys without dates were hooting with their free champagne, happy to be dateless at a strip club.

Had I to do it over again, I definitely would have made the effort to hit a couch somewhere.  But whatever.  I’m a little rusty.

Thanks for checking back in.  Here’s to good things in 2009.

Here’s a guy with an interesting idea for a website.  Only there’s no there there.

Besides, doesn’t Google tell you everything you need to know about sex anyway?  That’s how you found me…

So many questions about this story about the guy who offered the girl at Jiggles cocaine.  Interesting that anyone in there could possibly discover a deal in the works.  The last time I was there, which was a Friday  night, there was maybe 1-1/2 bouncers working.  And that’s a maybe.  There’s not a lot of security going on in there.

I’m guessing the girl either got creeped out by the guy or someone else turned them in.  The girl didn’t get busted though, so I’m leaning toward option A.  Either way, weird.

I’ve been woefully out of the game for a few months, hence the light blogging.  I’ve resolved, however, to pick back up, see what else is out there, and maybe revisit some faves.  I also need to get out front of this story about Stars potentially opening a club down in Tualatin.  To that end, I wanted to take another look at Jiggles.  I also wanted to talk a little about the difference between an 18-plus club and a 21-and-over club.

Without getting into too many technicalities, the juice bars are a lot less restrictive than the places which serve alcohol.  That’s because the OLCC can stick its nose into any place that serves liquor while they can’t do a thing about Jiggles or the various jack shacks around town.

I don’t know how many more police calls they receive at Jiggles than at say Stars or the Dolphin.  I can say it’s been a while since I’ve seen the police at any club that serves alcohol.  On the other hand, when I pulled into the parking lot at Jiggles on Friday night, a Tualatin police cruiser was pulling out.  They were there last time I was in too.  It could be coincidence, but as Chris Berman says, once is an accident, twice is a trend.  So that’s something to think about.

The parking lot wasn’t very full for a Friday night at 9pm.  Blame gas prices.  Blame the $700 billion thing.  Who knows.  I was definitely surprised there weren’t more customers.

I paid the guy at the door my $15, accepted my two drink tickets, and headed to the server.  The place hasn’t changed any since I was there last.  There are two “private” areas with couches on either end of the room, several tables lined up on the side closest to the freeway, and two stages.  A main stage with a pole in the center of the room, and a back stage with a full-length mirror on the north end of the building.

The girl working the pole looked like Jamie Lee Curtis in Trading places, only without the wig.  She was super-skinny, with short hair, tattoos and a pierced lower lip.  Ick.  It used to be dancers were content with the tramp stamp on their lower back.  Now the ink thing has spread all over.  Backs, fronts, sides, necks.  You name the body part, someone in there had a tattoo there.  Except the face.  But, of course, that’s the next frontier.

I moved to the back and took a seat at the stage.  As usual at the juice bars, I was the only one down there.  And thus the only one tipping.  I have zero idea how girls in here make any money.  Especially at night.  The place is crawling with community college students who want to drink Red Bull and pretend they’re players for a night.  There were a half dozen of them sitting at a table net to the back stage for the first few hours I was in there.  I’ve no idea why the dancers gave any of them the time of day.  They weren’t tipping and were sort of rude.  But they did.

A couple of the guys also brought their girlfriends.  I think everyone was trying to prove exactly how naughty nasty they were without having to really prove it.  The guys could get the dancers to meow for them, but would never in a million years ask the same of their dates.  I think if they did, they would have been shocked at the answer.  Not wanting to make waves with two nineteen-year-olds hyped-up on Red Bull, I decided not to put a move on anyone’s girlfriends.  I think it would have been interesting to see the outcome.

Most of the girls were younger than those you’d see at a typical club.  I think there was a certain amount of showing off with some of them.  Girls proving to themselves and their friends that they could be as sexual as anyone on MTV.  An interesting thought.  There were several who couldn’t have been more than six months out of high school.  What an interesting career choice.  Especially in there.  Again, after tipping out the DJ and paying the house, I don’t have any idea how those girls make a dime.

Things didn’t start to get interesting until I moved away from the stage and took a seat among the poor people.  Sitting at the rail is a sure-fire way to get some peace.  Sitting at a table is a sure-fire way to get some company, quickly.  Of the two-dozen girls working there Friday night, 3/4 of them hit me up for a dance while I sat alone.  On this, Jiggles gets an A-plus.  I hate chasing girls down and asking for dances.  That’s my shyness, I suppose.

I ended up passing on everyone.  I was trying to be frugal.  Besides, I was on recon.  I did end up having an interesting conversation, though, with a young blonde.  She said she primarily worked the day shift.  I told her I didn’t like coming to the club while it was light out.  Generally the girls aren’t as good and there’s a weird vibe.  She told me it was almost the complete opposite during the day at Jiggles.  Apparently they have a much older clientelle in there during the day.  She says the girls wear dresses, and the music is much quieter and more rock rather than rap.  Interesting.  I promised I’d file that nugget away and come back some Friday afternoon when I get off work a little early.

All-in-all Jiggles is alright.  It’s far from the seediest place in town.  The cover is definitely stiff, but it’s understandable given the fact they make zero dollars on beverages.  And the girls are a little less grizzled than you’re going to find around town.

I meant to write this up some time back, but I’ve never sat down to do it.  Well, better late than never.

Back in May I visited one of my favorite places in Southwest Portland.  Had a good time, stayed late, got a few dances, chatted up the girls, yada yada yada.  I texted one of the girls from the parking lot to inquire about another dancer.  I thought she was cute and had never seen her before.  Rather than tell me about the girl, the dancer tells me all about how the club had just fired their manager and things had become chaotic.  Apparently the guy had done too good of a job of cleaning the place up and running off the drugs and the…uhhhh….professionals.  Some of the girls, she said, were letting customers touch them during dances!

This, of course, is verbotin.  When receiving a couch dance, one must leave their hands on the arm rest or the back of the couch.  There is no in between.  There’s usually a very large guy a few feet away to enforce this rule.  So I don’t.  And I figured, naively it turned out, that everyone else obeyed as well.

This new information sort of blew my mind.  Again, I know…naive.  While I’ve had a few opportunities with various dancers (I’ll never forget the girl I had a two-hour conversation with about Freddy Fender), I’ve never followed through.  That’s another story.

Anyway, I couldn’t wait to test this new thing out.  So in July, I visited another of my favorite establishments.  It was a Sunday night, kind of slow.  I took a seat away from the stage and waited for the girls to come around.  Soon enough one did.  A brunette.  Probably mid-twenties.  A couple tattoos.  Stretch marks.  But whatever.  She was cute.  And definitely forward.  Soon enough she had me back on the couch.

I don’t want to get too graphic here, that’s not what this blog is about.  Suffice it to say, she had her chest in my face almost immediately.  After a few moments, her butt brushed up against my hand, which was on the back of the couch.  So I gave her a squeeze, just to see what happened.  Rather than reach up to move my hand away, she repositioned herself so I could slide my hand between her legs.  Meanwhile, she kept one eye on the bouncer a few feet away while she started to rub my crotch.

I’m telling you, it was the weirdest thing ever!  This wasn’t in a jack shack.  This was an over-21 establishment.  And here I was going all third base on a dancer.  Weird!

So after $60 and a breathless sigh, we parted ways.

I’m definitely not going to make a habit of this.  In fact, I don’t think I’ve had a dance since.  I mean after that, where is there left to go?  I mean I suppose I could become this guy (very NSFW), but I’ll leave that to someone else.

I know I’ve been through some fits and starts bringing this blog back from exile.  I appreciate your patience.  I have a few requests to check out some places around town and have a post I’ve been kicking around about the new Stars location in Tualatin.  And I never did get around to telling you why the Hawthorne Strip was my favorite place this summer.  No, that’s not where I got the dance in question.

Looks like they’re trying to bring a new club to Tualatin.  It’s not a bad location at all.  Plus the Stars in Beaverton is run really well.  I’m definitely coming around on that place, especially with the year-long slide of both Dolphin locations.  I am still, however, trying to figure out the attraction with Harley.  I took The Librarian in there several weeks back and even he developed a crush on her.  Me?  I’m all about the blonde with all the mascara.  I’ll have to get her name and report back.