Richard Thruster

It’s been a busy last few weeks for me. I’ve managed to get a couple of things out, but haven’t had any time to hit clubs let alone do a proper write-up. But when Jack Bog calls you out, it’s time to get back to work. A couple of readers have suggested I check out the Exotica International.  So check it out, I did.

Exotica is located in a funky part of the city that has a few different personalities. During the day, things are pretty industrial and lunch bucket. There’s a Kraft plant next door. A couple of fast food joints dot the intersection there at Columbia and MLK. And the Humane Society is just a few blocks down the street. After dark, the warehouses and cracker plant empty and lunch stops become hopping clubs. The Exotica is part of that scene.

I actually missed the driveway as I made the turn on MLK. During the day, the parking lot looks much bigger. A quick u-turn in the next parking lot, and I was there. A tiki torch out front let me know I’d found the place. It being a Saturday night, the parking lot was pretty full. I parked toward the back of the lot and made my way to the door. I was greeted by a guy in his early-5os who carried a hand held metal detector.

“If you’re carrying keys or a cell phone, could you take them out of your pocket?” he asked, “I’m trying to cut back on fondling guys.”

No problem. I held my keys in one hand and phone in the other while he gave me the once over. As he screened me, I read the sign on the door which banned bandanas and colors. And I think there may have been something about hats as well, but I can’t remember.

“Thanks,” the guy said, “the gentleman inside will ask you for ID and a $4 cover.”

$4? Wow. Cheap!

Walking in, the first thing I noticed was how dark it was. The lights were turned way down.  The tunes were alright.  A good mix of hip-hop and rock.  As I made a beeline for the main stage, a waitress intercepted me and took my order.  A bottle of Coors Light.

Seating at the stage was about half-full.  A group of guys off to one side were celebrating someone’s birthday and bounced to the hip-hop.  There were a few older guys mixed in as well.  I didn’t get a good look at the tables away from the stage.  It was just too dark.  They seemed to mostly be populated with dancers and a couple of what I guess were regulars.  You can get a good look at the layout of the place on their website.  Be forewarned though, the pictures on the site light the place up to an optimal level.  It sure wasn’t like that the night I went in.

There was a little video special I saw earlier this summer where some guy took a camera to a few places around town for a national adult website.  He stopped at Exotica and interviewed a couple of the customers.  They said there was someone inside there for everyone.  And they weren’t lying.  You like thick girls?  They got ‘em.  Big butts?  Yup.  Teenagers?  A few of those.  And one girl who initially turned my crank.  I wish I could remember her name.  Unfortunately there aren’t bios for individual dancers on the club’s website.

Anyway, remember those Budweiser ads from the late-80s with the three women in one-piece bathing suits laying on the beach?  This girl could have come straight out of that poster.  I wish I could find the picture.  Anyway.  Wavy blonde shoulder-length hair.  A toned body and perfect skin.  And the smile.  Oh my.  A perfect package.  And judging by the guys flocking to the stage, I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

When girls on stage come around to me,  generally don’t say anything.  I’ll nod.  Make eye contact.  Smile.  That sort of thing.  But talking dirty?  Nah.  That’s not my game at all.  That’s not part of the show to me.   The guy who sat next to me had no such inhibitions, however.  As the girl worked from me to him, he started in with all kinds of language.  To her credit, she kept smiling.  I’ve no idea how girls put up with the true degenerates.

As is my custom, I made it all the way through the rotation of girls.  There were a dozen or so working Saturday night.  Like I said, a good selection.  No one asked me for a dance, so I didn’t try one.  The VIP area in the back looked pretty empty as well.  So was it a busy night?  Hard to tell.  There looked like there was a third stage in the back, but it was unused.  Only the main stage and the cage were active.

I gotta be honest.  I was really impressed with the place.  Drinks were reasonably priced.  The girls were all decent.  And the interior was first-class.  I could have done without all the TVs playing softcore porn, but to each his own, I suppose.  They can’t all be showing ESPN.   Anyway, next time I’ll definitely be back sooner rather than later.

A reader writes in to ask:

I was wondering if guys who go to stripclubs would like or would want to be approached by women who go to stripclubs. Do you have any idea how guys would feel about this? Has this happened before? How to approach them?

That’s the gist of it, at least. See, the guy who wrote in to ask was a dude. Oh sure, he said his name was “Linda”, but he sure didn’t write like a woman. He got into some graphic detail about what he’d like to do/have done, and while I’m sure lots of girls would like to do all kinds of unmentionable things to lots of guys, they’re usually more discreet. Besides, that’s really not what this space is about. The Internet is a big BIG world and there’s lots of room to get filthy if you wish. That ain’t what this is about.

But Steve does bring up an interesting question.  What is the role of the civilian women in the strip club?  It’s been interesting to observe women at different clubs and how they interact with the dancers on stage.  I’ve seen women recoil in horror at having a dancer bend over and shove her crotch in the customer’s face.  I’ve seen a civilian jump up on stage and tae it all off for one song.  Mostly they fall into two groups.  There are the girls who are there to reward their boyfriends or because their boyfriends asked politely.  It’s probably as close as the guy will get to a) a threesome or b) watching his girlfriend with another girl.  Both are major early-21st Century male fantasies.  These types of girls can usually be found at the Dolphin or Club 205 or similar suburban place.

The closer you get to downtown, the more likely you are to run into the PBR-drinking girl who’s out to have a good time with a group of friends.  Usually her boyfriend is involved, though not always.  But she’s out to have a beer or appletini and wave some dollar bills in the air.  Where the civilians at the Dolphin are kind of reserved (not all of them, mind you…just more often than not), the ones at Sassy’s or Cabaret I are more open with the girls.  And those women are certainly more likely to approach a guy.  At least that’s what I see.

I’ll throw it out to you, gentle reader.  Have you seen many single women at the club?  Do they generally mix it up?  Or are they wallflowering it?

Sorry for the lack of posts the last couple of weeks.  I’ve been working on getting another project off the ground and haven’t had any time to get out.  I do have a review I’m working on and should have up this week.  Then I’ll be back out on the prowl.

In the meantime, here’s a comment left by a friend of Natalia who takes issue with my love of Jewel.  Which is fine.  We’ve all got our taste.  If we all loved the same type of woman, they’d all be blonde with bolt-on D-cups.  Fortunately we get a variety.  Which is why I love the strip clubs.  There’s always one that turns your crank.  In my case, it’s the Jewel.

There was an interesting little tidbit buried in OregonLive’s Blazer blog earlier this week.  Apparently Zach Randolph was back in town and spent an evening out at the Cabaret II.  What he was doing clear out there when there are many more quality places closer in is beyond me.  But the word is he had two private dancers with him the entire night.  So good on him.  Here’s hoping he had a better time out there than I did.  With a few million dollars in the bank, I’m guessing he probably did.

There have been two places I’ve had multiple requests to check out.  The Club Exotica in North Portland is one.  The other is Jiggles.  For most men in the area, Jiggles is the place they popped their strip club cherry.  That’s because Jiggles has been a juice bar ever since having their liquor license taken away back in the day.  It was Jack Rabbit’s first place in 1990, and it had been alcohol-free for a few years before that.  So there you have it.  If you’re under-21 and you want to see live boobies, you either get a girlfriend or go to Jiggles.

Like The Dolphin 1 in Milwaukie, Jiggles is located inside an  abandoned buffet restaurant.  It’s across a sidestreet from the Tualatin K-Mart.  Despite being clearly visible from the freeway, it’s a bit of a work to find.  You go down a blind street and into a semi-hidden (at least after dark) parking lot and there you are.  The lot is cramped and could use a fresh layer of asphalt and some new stripes.  But as I’ve learned at other places around town, a rutted parking lot isn’t going to keep folks from visiting.

The lot was jam packed when I pulled in around 10:30.  I ended up parking on the street down below the club, in front of an idling semi-truck.  Other patrons were parking in the K-Mart parking lot.  It’s never a good idea, I’ve found, to park on someone else’s property when you’re going into another establishment.  I realize it’s way after business hours and such, but it’s exactly this scenario that keeps towing companies in business.  So it’s on the street for me.  I’ll let everyone else roll the dice.

Walking up the hill, I could tell immediately I was going to be out of my element.  There were three “make it rain-types”, with the untucked button-down shirt, the gold chains, and one with his hat turned to 5-o’clock, standing outside the front door, oggling the latest issue of Exotic magazine.  These guys are at every club in town and they annoy the living hell out of me.  I couldn’t tell you why.  I just don’t have anything in common with any of them.

As I walked through the door, I could hear some rap tune coming from inside.  Not all that unusual and it seemed pretty benign.  (Here’s a great article, by the way, on the life of a strip club dj.  $20 to play a request?  Uhhhh….no thanks.  I’ll save my Jackson for the couch.)  The doorman looked like a pro wrestler from the 80s.  Personable, though.

“Three dollars,” he said.

“What?” I asked, not believing there was a chance in hell he just said three bucks.

“Three dollars.”

Huh, I thought, as I handed him a twenty.  There’s no way I heard that right.  He rang up $15 and handed me back a five.

That’s what I expected.  It’s been a few years since I’d been in there and knew it was steep to get in.  Because they can’t sell liquor, they have to make their money somewhere.  In this case, the house makes their money at the door.  The guy handed me three tickets and I turned to size the place up.  I almost broke out laughing at what I saw.

There are two stages inside.  One in the middle of the room, and one in the rear.  The one in the middle is circular and has a pole in the middle, while the one in the rear features a full-length mirror.  What nearly made me laugh was the three rows of tables lined up against the far wall and the rows and rows of community college guys staring slack-jawed at the stage.  This truly is a club for beginners.  How do girls make their money in there?

I headed to the “bar” to trade one of my two drink tickets for a Diet Coke and to load up on singles.  The nice thing about the fact 90% of the patrons weren’t going to spend one-cent more than the $15 it cost to come inside was it cleared up the rail for me.  There were a couple of guys up front, feeding singles to the girls.  One guy, a little older than me seemed to be enjoying himself, but made it clear he preferred to be left alone.  That was sort of my mood tonight as well.  Because the girls make their money almost exclusively on the couch, there’s much more cajoling and such than would happen at The Dolphin or 205.  Girls were even walking up from behind as I sat at the rail and hitting me up for dances.  That’s verbotin at almost every club in town.  Here, its fair game.

Like the guys, the girls tended to be under-21.  Many of them looked like they had some miles on them despite their youth.  Hard childhoods?  Too much apartment living?  Dunno.  I do know there were some leathery 20-year-olds in there.  Two girls did stand out.  One was a young Sandra Oh-looking girl who was made-up in garish baby-girl make-up.  It was clownish and looked awful.  I realize there’s a whole fetish thing in porn for girls in pig-tails with that “baby” look, but in a place like this where literally everyone is under-age, what’s the point of trying to look younger?  I made an early decision she wouldn’t be getting any of my money.  Can’t reward Asian Tammy Fayes.

The second girl who stood out, and not in a good way, made a special effort to show off her pierced clit and the jewelry which hung from same.  I just sat there and thought it’s great and all that she’s nasty, but the pierced clit is so 1997.  Now she’s probably been dancing that long, but still.  Wouldn’t you take it out at some point?  Or are those things like the back tattoos?  Permanent.  Dunno.  All I know is if you’re thinking of getting anything below your ears pierced, please don’t.  That goes for the belly button too.

The original plan was to sit at the stage until all the girls had worked their way through.  The problem was girls kept showing up.  I hear the ads on the radio advertising how many girls they have working at Jiggles, and they ain’t lying.  Everytime I went to the restroom, there was another girl coming in.  So my plan wasn’t going to work.  Instead, I just waited until my singles ran out.  I went through over $25 and never saw the same girl twice.  You think about that.  Suddenly the math on the $15 doesn’t seem so unreasonable.

Well, actually it is.  But whatever.

I was getting up to leave around 12:15 when one of the girls who’d caught my eye pulled me aside and told me I couldn’t leave.  It was a line, but I was buying it.  We spent a few minutes discussing the deal, egging her to tell me why she gave the best couch dance in the club.  She told me she was a redhead and that should be enough.  Normally I’m all over redheads from the moment they come into sight (Jack Rabbit can atest to this), but somehow I didn’t pick up on her.  I did notice her mouthful of braces, which is hot.  But the red hair sealed the deal.

She took me back into a corner which contained only a handful of couches.  I pointed to a small room near the couches and asked about it.  There was a curtain pulled, but through it you could see a girl, completely naked, grinding on a guy.

“Yeah, that’s the private room.  It’s $110 for 4-songs.  But I won’t ask you to go in there.  I’m not greedy.”

But looking inside at the nakedness and such, I couldn’t imagine why this would be such a bad thing.  It’s probably because Ginger, the redhead, didn’t find me particularly attractive and didn’t want to spend 20 minutes grinding on me thusly.

“That’s funny actually,” she said.  “We’re supposed to have our underwear on during those dances.”

Well, I certainly wasn’t complaining.

Ginger sat on my lap as we waited for our song to begin.  She’s a short girl with perfect curves and a nice smile.  And the red hair, which I’m still not 100% convinced is real.  But who am I to complain.  We went through the normal small-talk.  Where I’m from.  What I do for a living.  How long she’s been dancing.  The normal stuff.  As soon as the next tune came on, her top came off and the show began.

She mounted me and started to swirl her hips into mine.  She ran her entire body down my face and neck, giving me lots of contact with her flesh.  This stuff only happens at the juice bars, I’ve found.  She purred into my ear as she cupped her breast.  She turned around and slid the whole length of my body and down to the floor.  A pretty good show, and one I’d definitely like to see more of.  Maybe someday when she graduates to The Dolphin.  Maybe.

Leaving the club, I saw a couple of Tualatin’s finest in the parking lot talking with the doorman.  That’s always a special sight as you’re leaving.  And more evidence that maybe it’s best to leave the youth activities to the young.  I’m glad I went and checked it out, but I think I’ll be leaving Jiggles alone.  Too many other places with girls that are just as hot but with a more mature clientèle.  I didn’t know how important that was.

After a funky Friday night, which I promise I’ll get to, I needed something to cleanse the pallet.  The choice came down to the 205, Jiggles, or The Dolphin II.  Each had their merit.  The 205 is closer to home and Jiggles features a younger crew that I have yet to review, but the D2 had something neither of the others did.  Raquel.  Redhead strippers are few and far between.  Even fewer are really hot ones.  And Raquel is certainly that.  So flush with a grip of cash from my night gig, I made the trek out to Beaverton Saturday night to visit my new favorite.

Rolling in, the girl at the door was going over the menu.  I asked her what she was having as I paid my cover.  She replied the fettuccini was pretty good.  That’s surprising since normally I don’t equate Italian with a strip club.  “Actually”, she said, “anything with chicken is pretty good.”  Worth noting.  There are only two menus in town I’ve been wanting to check out:  the legendary steak at the Acropolis and the bar food at the 205.  Everywhere else has left me kinda squeamish.

Moving through the door I immediately scanned the place for Raquel.  The plan was to stick like Velcro to her until she’d taken all of my money.  Unfortunately she wasn’t working.  And that just sucked.  Is she still out there?  Has she moved somewhere else?  I need to know!  I’ve got singles that need to be thrown!

It wasn’t long before Plan B came into focus.  Sitting in the back corner, nursing my beer and feeding Raquel’s money into the video poker machine, the DJ announced Jewel was next up on the main stage.  The pole stage.  Time to go make acquaintances

.

After my last time in there, I was 99% sure she knew who I was.  How could she not?  Everytime she was on stage, I was right there.  Then a couple of days later a glowing report showed up on the Internet.  I figured the gig was up.  And besides I owed her a couch dance to see how the new improved Jewel stacked up against the old jabby Jewel.

I sat down in a corner and waited for the show to start.  She immediately saw me and smiled.  Yeah.  She knew.  The show was spectacular as usual all the way down to hanging from the rafters by her legs and swinging back.  Oh goodness.  Her set ended with her naked, sitting on the rail with her back to me.  *Sigh*  As she scooped up the bills she asked if I wanted a private dance.  I did.  She told me to meet her in the back for the next tune.  I headed straight for the ATM, because I knew this wouldn’t be a one-tune thing.

It took an extra minute to get cash from the machine.  Looking across the room, I could see Jewel was looking for me.  In the room.  Around the entrance.  It’s probably not the first time someone had disappointed her.  She’s a businesswoman and probably doesn’t take kindly to a-holes who run off on her.  I caught her eye and assured her I was hitting the ATM.  Probably a good sign from her perspective.

We retired to the same couch Roxy and I had used a few weeks ago.  We made some small talk while we waited for the next tune to start.  Didn’t she know me from the Dolphin 1.  Do I come here often.  All that sort of stuff.  Pretty soon the song began.  She took off my glasses and went to work.  She started out asking what I liked.  Knowing that she knew who I was, I sensed she wanted to give me a good show.  I assured her I was in her hands and she could do whatever she wanted.  She rubbed the back of my neck, asked if I liked it, and we were off.

After my last couch dance with Jewel, the one where I swore I’d never make that mistake again, The Librarian and I hatched a book idea.  It would be a sales book comparing the sales game to the stripping game.  It’s all about sales, you see.  And the two things all “successful” sales guys and managers love are strippers and metaphors.  If you’ve ever read that book Who Moved My Cheese or, the even more dreadful, Fish!, you know of what I speak.  We had the outline all done up during our drive back home one night.  Unfortunately neither one of us remembered to write any of it down.  So it’s lost to the ages.  Except one chapter title.  “Can’t get past the jabby”  In a word, that was my initial issue with Jewel.  It was all finger-tips and jabbing.  Not a good thing.

Jewel, though, is a smart cookie.  She’ll see if something’s not working and adapt.  She’s honed her craft and is good at it.  Both on stage and now on the couch.  Where before it was sort of frenetic and…well, jabby, now it’s softer, more free flowing, and…well, nice.  Some nuzzling, some blowing on my ear, and lots of rubbing earned her a second dance.  Oh!  And a nice shot of her cleavage while she lay on my lap and rubbed the back of my head.  Heaven.  Jewel has one of the best bodies going.  Period.  And $20 to have her lay down on my lap and show it to me (even though it was covered) was a bargain.

At the end of the second song I said she had all my money and we went back to small talk.  I asked if it was her or someone pretending to be her who’d e-mailed me.  She said it was her.  We spent the next 20 minutes talking on the couch about this and that.  Like I said, smart smart girl.  And not in that Phil Stanford “she can speak four languages and put a bunch of sailors in their place” sort of way.  It’s more of a “don’t piss her off because someday we’ll all be working for her” vibe.  Hopefully when the revolution comes, she’ll be kind.

Our conversation quickly ended when she was called to the back stage.  Our newfound friendship gave me some extra benefits.  She kept making little comments to me as she passed by, but I could only make out the pronouns.  Beyond that, I just smiled and nodded.  And fed her singles.

As soon as her set ended, I headed back to the video poker.  I was having relatively good luck at the machines, picking up $30 or so which wasn’t too shabby.  I had no complaints.  I kept one eye on the action in case there was anyone else I wanted to check out.

There was one girl I’d talked about last time I was in there who was back.  Short.  Very cute.  Bubbly.  And blonde.  I saw she was on the side stage, so I made my way back.  She leaned down and asked my name.  I gave it to her and asked hers’.  “Misty,” she said.  Oh Misty.  She proceeded to put on a show for everyone at the rail.  She’s gorgeous.  All the way down to her toes.  Unlike last time, she was a little less shy about showing off her butt, which is one of her best assets.  Last time she kept it covered and made sure to pull down the back of her skirt lest it be exposed.  This time, though, it all came off.  As she stood in front of me and bounced her tits a little, she said she didn’t like doing that because it made her butt bounce.  I told her she had a great ass and she shouldn’t be bashful about it.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

From then on, I got a little extra.  A close-up of her breasts.  A little tap on my head.  Clearly I’d gotten her attention.  Later, at the mainstage, she came over and thanked me for the compliment then proceeded to crawl down the rail to give me an up close look at her ass.  *Swoon*  After Jewel, I cannot say enough good things about her.  And it’ll be because of her that I’ll be back again.  Soon.

My night wrapped up a little while later.  I’d been drinking ice water for a little while and it was starting to make me a little chilly.  Jewel was standing at the bar with another guy, looking at the menu.  I went over to thank her for the dance and the conversation.  And I recommended the fettuccini.  Can’t wait for my next visit.