Richard Thruster

The Google hits have been jumping off the charts since I mentioned Hotties in passing while reviewing Stars Cabaret. What’s the fascination, exactly? The place is in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by car lots. It’s 18-and-over, which means it’s either in competition with Jiggles, or it’s some other sort of place. I was hoping for the former but feared the latter. The other night, I gave it a try.

As I mentioned, the place is in the middle of nowhere. It’s in a blink and you’ll miss it spot on the south side of Canyon Rd. I ended up driving nearly to 217 before doubling back and finding it. The parking lot was pretty full. I was able to find a spot right on the end. I triple-checked to make sure my car was locked before I went in. There was some guy loitering outside. He may have been security, but I’ve no idea. He was in the same spot as he wished me a good night when I left. So who knows.

Walking in, I was greeted by a great bouncer. Didn’t catch his name, but he’s a cheerful dude. I asked him if he wanted my money, he replied just $5.

Sidebar: A low cover should be an immediate giveaway anytime you find yourself in a juice bar. Jiggles is $15. Cheetah’s down in Salem is $10. The house will always get theirs’. At Jiggles it’s on the cover and overpriced drinks. At Cheetah’s, it’s by forcing patrons to use scrip. At Carnaval, it’s in the private booths.

I handed over my cash and asked the guy if my Diet Coke was going to be $5.

“Yep,” he said.

“Free refills?”

“Nope.”

Ah! See what I mean? There’s alway something.

I turned the corner, walked straight to the “bar” and ordered a Diet Coke. I sat at the end of the bar to take in the room.

There are two stages on either side of the main room. One tucked back into a corner, and one running along the front wall. No rails. No place to sit your cola down. Pretty bare bones. There weren’t that many tables around the place either. Just a few. They were all occupied.

Sensing fresh meat, a cute brunette girl came over to chat me up. After the perfunctory “I’ve never been to a strip club” jive, she and I got down to brass tacks.

“Would you like to know what’s available?” she asked.

“I’d like to know about that $50 for a half-hour sign I see,” I replied.

There were three or four little rooms, for lack of a better term, along the near wall. Each had an easy chair and a curtain which was pulled back. Next to one of the rooms was a sign advertising a half hour for $50. “Score!” I thought. I’d sign up for a $50 lap dance if it lasted a half hour.

The brunette moved in closer to me, hands rubbing my thighs.

“Yeah, those rooms are great,” she said “those dances aren’t like couch dances at all. You don’t have to sit on your hands. You get to touch as much of the girl as she’s comfortable with.”

I wish I could remember the exact phrase she used next. Basically she intimated I’d be able to touch her anywhere.

Sold. For $50, I was in.

“Oh no,” she continued, “$50 is the house cut. The half hour costs $200.”

Oh!

Remember the whole thing about the house always getting theirs? Now we know how.

Well, $200 was way out of my price range and I let her know. Within seconds our conversation turned into a scene out of that Cathouse show on HBO. She started trying to find my price. She slashed the dance to $150. No deal. Maybe $125? She was using scripts I learned back in my sales days. And she came after me hard.

“I thought we had chemistry,” she pleaded.

Right. I’m a mark and I know that.

“Why did you suddenly change your mind?”

“You’re way out of my price range,” I said, as I watched a couple girls take guys back to another part of the building. Perhaps there were couch dances to be had? If there were, I wasn’t going to be getting one from her. I was there to have a good time, not feel like I’m buying a car.

After a few more Zig Ziglar scripts, I finally looked her in the eye and told her she wouldn’t be getting a single dollar out of me. Ever. That was what finally convinced her to give up. Interestingly, she didn’t spread the word to the other girls. Normally word travels fast when a customer is either being generous or cheap. Perhaps she doesn’t talk to the other girls. Whatever. I didn’t lack for attention the rest of the evening.

A few other girls came by to say hi.  A sloppy blonde with wavy hair.  Another was pierced and tatted up.  Both appeared glassy eyed.  I’ll leave it at that.

I worked my way down to the stage to see a couple of the girls close-up.  The only one I really remember was a tall blonde girl who was really well put together and had a smile that worked for me.  She spent her time between me and these two other girls at the other end of the stage who were either lipstick lesbians or sisters on a church outing.  I couldnt figure their deal out.  Either way, the blonde didn’t want to be there, but she was a trooper.  She got a few of the dollars the brunette could have had if she’d backed off.   She came to my side of the stage after the dance, leaned into me with her breasts in my face and whispered “would you like a private dance?”

See, she could have had a dance.  But I was still unsure of the whole $200 thing.  So I thanked her and said no.  It finally took another girl to set me straight and offer a $20 couch dance.  She and I had a little thing going all night.  We made eyes and smiled.  She was a sweetheart.  But I’d already put my time in and had decided to go hit the Dolphin.

As bad as my experience was, I can’t get the place out of my head.  Why?  Well, the blonde for one.  I’ll bet you $1 she’s not there anymore.  But if she is, I owe her a couch dance.  Second was the girl with the eyes.  See?  Two girls I owe couch dances.  And the whole point of this exercise was to judge the couch dances!  So while they’re not at the top of my agenda, Hottie’s will definitely be in my rotation next time I hit the west side.

Friend of blog and Karaoke From Hell guitarist Raul St. Texas sends along his first hand account of last night’s encounter with porn legend Ron Jeremy at Tiger Bar.

i arrive at the show with plenty of time, but i’m exhausted and not in the mood to play at all. just one of those kinda nights. i’m playing with a few new pedals and my sound is not dialed at all. just couldn’t feel my tone. about 3 songs in, i break a string and go to the backup guitar. i quickly realize that i hadn’t really spent any time with this guitar through the new pedals on the board. now, my tone sucks, i’m frazzled and am just focusing on getting through til set break.

the string gets replaced during set break….i’m back in business. first singer for set #2 walks up on stage. punk kinda guy. spiky hair, lots of chains…he’s loaded. as i’m flipping the song charts to his song, i feel a hand reach over my shoulder and land on my…ummm…”pec”. he then yells “this guy has the best T!TS in portland” over the microphone. ….ok…didn’t expect that… now, i’m not the skinniest guy in the world, but i’ve lost 30 lbs in the past several months. i wanted to somehow inform the audience of this…or just do SOMETHING to give myself a remote shred of dignity. but there is nothing (and i mean NOTHING) you can say or do to recover after a statement like that. i wanted to say “uhhn uhh!” and point to the waitress (who isn’t shy about telling people that her other job requires FAR less clothing than what she was currently wearing) who clearly has far better ones than i do. i also considered just running off the stage while wiping the tears from my eyes, but didn’t feel like adding “may jump off stage while crying like a little schoolgirl” to my musical resume. anyway, during the song, he stumbles back onto my pedalboard, knocks my ebow and slide onto the middle of the stage. he’s jumping all around at this point. i kick the ebow out of the way, but my glass slide didn’t make it. whatever.

during a rousing rendition of folsom prison blues, my pedalboard blows up. an incredibly loud, terrible sound is screaching from my rig. bypass the board, straight into amp…song done. before the next tune i grab an all-around distortion pedal off the board and plug back in. at this point, i couldn’t care less if the entire place started on fire. i just wanted off the stage.

we start playing “hit me with your best shot” by pat benetar. after the solo, i look out to see a hand giving me the universal “you rock” devil horn thing… i move slightly to the left to get out of a glaring yellow light. follow the hand down the arm to see a shorter, tubby-ish guy with a mustache and longer, stringy curly-ish hair.

yes, that’s right…..RON F’N JEREMY was giving me the you rock sign while playing “hit me with your best shot”.

if it’s too early for any of you…i’ll repeat it: RON JEREMY…was telling me that i rocked while playing the song “hit me with your best SHOT”…

i went to bed at 2:52 this morning with a sense of musical arrival like i had never known.

According to Ron’s MySpace, he’s going to be at the Castle Mega Store at 6pm tonight. I may just have to go get my picture taken with him.

It’s Xxxena, Princess of Porn!  At least that’s what the sign outside the Safari announced this week.  Based on her gallery, I’m going to say she’ll be about the sixth or seventh best looking girl in there.  Think I’ll pass.

Perpetual gubernatorial candidate Kevin Mannix has crafted an initiative petition to amend Oregon’s constitution to allow more strict regulation of strip clubs. He’s already created a front group called “Oregonians Protecting Neighborhoods“. No doubt petitions will be circulated in churches starting next spring with an eye toward the 2008 elections. This is a continuation of the Karl Rove strategy from 2004, where Republicans put social issues on the ballot in an effort to lure “values voters” to the polls. Once there, of course, they voted overwhelmingly for George W Bush. No doubt the Republican Party would like to see a similar outcome for their next nominee.

A fascinating name, “Oregonians Protecting Neighborhoods”. What neighborhoods are we protecting exactly? Where in Oregon has a strip club plopped itself down in the middle of a neighborhood? A school? A playground? Where?

Mannix’s website includes a laundry list of laws other states have enacted to regulate strip clubs. The include:

• Zone strip act locations away from churches, schools, and residential neighborhoods.
• Establish standards as to maintenance of the premises, restriction of loitering by minors.
• Require that all areas in which entertainment is provided be visible from the common areas.
• Deny licenses to own or operate strip act businesses to those who have been convicted of certain crimes.

If you ask any club owner in town, they’ll tell you the OLCC already does a bang-up job on all these fronts.  Yet we need additional government regulation beyond those already in place?  What happened to “small government”?

I would suggest the majority of clubs in town, certainly every one I’ve visited, are no different than any other bar in town and the problems the create are the same as the bar down the street.  In fact, I would challenge anyone looking to regulate strip clubs in Oregon to spend a Saturday night outside any club in the area then spend a Saturday in front of a bar and tell me what the difference is.  Go visit Cabaret at 5th and Burnside some Saturday night at 11, then walk down to SW 2nd Ave and tell me where you feel safer.  Which location causes more problems for the “neighborhood”?

In four years of high school and another five of college, I never set foot once inside a biology classroom. All these years later, that remains a huge point of pride for me. Right along with the fact I didn’t take a single math class in college either. Had I taken math, I would have probably had some cursory knowledge of statistics. Such knowledge would have come in handy a month ago when I took the GMAT test. Alas. I’ll make a much better chronicler of strip clubs than I would a CEO anyway.

Why am I telling you this?

Well it doesn’t take a biology major to know each of us has a”type” and sometimes when we see someone who’s our type, we’ll go to the ends of the Earth to be with that person. It’s not a stalking thing. It’s a biology thing. It’s how even the fuggliest girl at school can pro-create. Even Janet, the fuggliest girl in my school, has found love.

I’ve been monkeying with this MySpace thing now for a few weeks. If you’re interested, by the way, you can be my friend here. I’ve tried to add as many clubs as I can, as well as a few people who can help me gain a wider audience. It’s all about the networking, don’t you know. Anyway, I added Oregon Erotic as one of my friends last week. They published a bulletin a few days back announcing their November cover girl. And that picture whacked me right between the eyes. Victoria. Oh Victoria. The hair. The eyes. Oh my. I had to go see her.

I’ve probably driven by Pallas hundreds of times on my way to see friends out toward Gresham. It’s out at 136th and Powell, right in the heart of Methville. There’s a bar right across the street called “The Double Dribble” which used to advertise topless bartenders. A jack shack lingerie modeling studio is next door. Pallas has always seemed a cut above those two places. It’s a stand-alone building that’s well-lit. And the sign seems more Vegas than Portland. At least that’s always been my impression. That said, you have to want to go to Pallas. There are tons of other places that are more convenient and probably feature better girls. But none of them are Victoria.

I parked next to the door and walked in. I was immediately greeted by the bouncer and a girl. She could have been a friend. She could have been an employee. I’m still not 100% on who she was. Anyway, I stopped at the desk, looked the guy in the eye and asked if he needed my ID or any money. Despite my age, I’m finding I’m getting carded more and more around town. The OLCC is probably cracking down somehow and that’s got clubs thinking zero-tolerance. It’s not a big deal, I suppose. Just a curiosity. The bouncer smiled and said “nope, don’t need any of that. I’ll shake your hand though. He reached out and we shook.

I don’t go out on a lot of Sunday nights, so I’m not sure whether they’re that busy or not. Pallas definitely wasn’t. They were only running one of the three stages. There was no one at the rail. Just a girl twirling around the pole by her lonesome. I wandered over to the bar where another girl was chatting up a customer as they tried to figure out what they’d like to drink. The bartender was patient and finally poured a beer and a shot for each. She finally got to me and I ordered my standard Coors Light. $3.25. Score!

As she went to get my bottle, I turned around to see who was on stage now. The new girl was a shorter one with long red hair and a single admirer. She had the top of her dress pulled down and was showing off for the guy. After a few seconds of conversation, he stood up, turned around and lifted his shirt to show her his tattoo. Classy. It was a full-back piece which, from across the room, looked complete. He sat back down and they continued their session. I headed to the video poker machines and wondered where Victoria was.

In my younger days, I was a huge fan of Jacks or Better, but now I prefer the Deuces Wild. Either way, the key to video poker is the double-up. When you win a hand, you immediately head to this bonus screen where you can double your winnings by either picking a high card or rolling dice or some such. Sometimes I can win a buck or two if I play long enough. Lately I can’t win anything. Such was my luck at Pallas.

As the night went on, it was becoming increasingly clear that Victoria wasn’t working. I decided to head toward the stage anyway. After all, I’m here for you, dear reader. And how are you gonna know the talent level if I don’t experience it first hand. So I parked it and started feeding singles to the girl on stage. She was quite nice. Another girl came up. She’d pretty obviously had a kid recently. She didn’t do anything for me.

I was getting ready to call it a night when the DJ said something that sounded an awful lot like Victoria. I turned around and there she was. Looking at her, it finally dawned on me what the connection was. She reminded me of a girl I dated in high school. And for the next two songs, I had her all to myself.

She came out in standard issue stripper shoes and the same outfit she wore in the Oregon Erotic shoot. As she made her first circle around the pole, she kicked the board of the stage to get my attention. Actually she already had mine. Maybe she was trying to announce herself to the rest of the room. They were too busy though playing pool and poker. Oh well. I placed my singles up on the rail and proceeded to enjoy the show. She came over and whispered a few things in my ear. I can’t remember a one of them. I just remember enjoying her scent and her breasts. She pushed me back into my chair and kneeled on the rail. We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. I’m telling you, it was like high school all over again. I waited for her to ask me for a dance. She could have had every last dollar in my wallet if she’d just asked. But she didn’t.

About halfway through the second song, a friend of hers showed up and they got to talking. Turns out I was nice and all, but the friend was who she was really interested in. *sigh* Beaten out again. This time by a girl!

After the song ended, Lexi made her way to the stage. As Victoria stepped down, Lexi went in for a kiss. Was it supposed to turn me on? It sure didn’t seem to do much for Victoria. Eh.

After Lexi, the girls rotated back to the top. My Coors Light was about done, so I headed for the door. Still shocked at how things went down with Victoria. I’ll be back though. Armed with $20s and a dream. I’ll get that dance.

I’ve finally gotten around to completing the “clubs” page.  If you click on “clubs” (or here), you’ll now have a one-stop place for addresses and reviews.  I’ll add more as I visit more.

I guess I should have known better than to venture out on the Saturday before Halloween. There’s been much grousing this year about the fact the big day fell smack in the middle of the week, rather than closer to the weekend. That meant most of the Halloween frolicking happened last Saturday. Just my luck.

Safari has been on my radar for a while. If you’re a regular reader of John Canzano, you’ll know Darius and Zach have been there a time or two. A commenter at Jack Bog’s blog mentioned Darius had been there fairly recently and he seemed cool. Still, after dark that stretch of Powell seems to get a little sketchy. Go just a few blocks south, and it’s felony flats. And don’t get me started on the Motel 6 next door. Mix all that together, and what could possibly go wrong?

Pulling into the parking lot, I honestly wasn’t sure what to expect. In fact, I almost left. The lot itself isn’t that well lit and there didn’t seem to be much in the way of security near the door. Both raise major red flags when going into a new place. But the guy leaving seemed normal enough and that was that. I parked around back and headed in.

The girl at the front door asked me for my ID and seemed almost apologetic when she asked for a $5 cover. $5 is pretty standard for a Saturday night. Some places charge a little more, some a little less. But $5? Whatever. I paid and made my way around the corner.

The first thing I saw was an empty stage surrounded by white tapestry arranged to look like clouds. It’s never a good sign when the first stage is empty. Slow night? Dunno. I worked my way back, looking for the bar and an ATM. I was going to treat myself to a lap dance.

I approached the bar and proceeded to get ignored for a good two minutes as the bartender stood at the far end and talked up a regular. I’m not accustomed to the topless bartender scene. In fact, this is the first place I’ve been to where the bartenders dressed like dancers. Miss Chatty was dressed in a black number that was more Fredricks of Hollywood than Victoria’s Secret. A lot of black and straps. She’s a tight little spinner who didnt seem to be too into her gig. After a few minutes, another girl showed up and took my order. She was much more personable than girl #1. That probably had a lot to do with the fact she talked to me. Her get-up wasn’t nearly as up-front as Girl #1’s. In fact, she looked normal. That was until she turned around to get my beer. Then I saw she was wearing a very short dress and some sexy fishnets. Oh goodness. My weakness. I ended up drinking more than normal just so I could watch her move across the floor. Heaven.

After I got my beer, I headed down to the main stage to see what was going on. Two stairs lead from the bar to the main stage area. It’s a pit, I guess. There are two stages up against the wall, each with plenty of real estate for the girls to do their thing. They seem much larger, I think, because they don’t feature seating all the way around. For some reason girls always seem further away when there’s not another set of eyes at the other side of the stage.

The first girl up was a spinner not unlike bartender #1. She came over and immediately asked if I came there often. That question is becoming sort of tiresome. Either a) she hasn’t danced there very long, or b) she hasn’t built up much of a rap. In her case, I’m gonna take b. Nice enough girl. Brunette and flexible. She pulled herself up on the bar that ran on the ceiling parallel to the stage and pulled her body all the way through her arms. I’m sure there’s a technical gymnast term for it. I’ll just call it painful. Whereas some girls like to crawl along the stage, forcing you to move your drink (Club 205) and others spend a lot of time gyrating on the ground (Dolphin I), girls at Safari like to stand on the edge of the stage and hold on to that bar up above for balance. It forces the customer to sit waaay back in their chair if they want to get a good look. It’s fine, I guess. But I sure do like to hunch over my drink and look down upon the world. Alas that’s not what we’re at the club for.

Safari’s website doesn’t feature any of the girls I saw Saturday, so unfortunately I’m not going to be much help in that department. In fact, the site features more white girls than I saw all night. So too does their MySpace page. Interesting.

There wasn’t a ton of physical interaction with the dancers. For the most part, they stayed on their side, I on mine. One notable exception was a very affectionate girl who put one leg on each of my shoulders and rubbed them back and forth on my face. Oh my.

After a bit a couple came and joined me on the rail. The girl looked like Jennifer Coolidge but dressed like a Hee Haw Honey. She may have been drunk. Not sure. What I am sure of though was she was annoying. She started putting dollar bills inside her bra and telling dancers to come get them. Then she moved to her mouth. It was supposed to be hot, I guess. The problems started when she became all hands as the girls came to get their singles. Girls had to ask her more than once not to touch. Did she listen? Ummmm….no.

When the craziness starts to happen, that’s when I know it’s time to head for the door. As I turned around to leave, I found one guy dressed as a dog and another dressed as Lil Jon. Although I suspect the Lil Jon getup wasn’t for Halloween. The place had turned into Club Mescaline and nothing good can come from that.

Safari was a much better club than I expected and will definitely be on my list of places to visit when I don’t want to hike all the way to Beaverton.