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.

I made the hike out there Saturday night. During the drive, I found another place on the south side of Beaverton-Hillsdale Highway that looked to be jam packed. Hotties. Looks like it’s a juice bar. Great. Maybe after Blush. And the Hawthorne Strip.

I pulled into the parking lot around 10:30 or so with a wad of singles in my pocket and a plan to spend them all on Harley. Pulling in, I found a spot right up front. It took me a second to figure out it was a valet spot and I’d need to pay someone for the privilege of parking there. I’ve no idea why anyone would want to pay to park in front of a club. It seems like a dumb idea to me. I worked my way around back and found what I guess was a spot under a tree. There were no spots to be found anywhere.

I followed a couple through the door and up to the register. The lady at the door carded both of them and charged $6. Not too bad. She also asked me for ID and wrote down my birth year before taking my admission. I turned to enter the room and was immediately blasted with lights and music and girls. So this is what Las Vegas-style entertainment is supposed to look like!

There were four stages, each of them occupied by a girl hotter than the last. I’ve never seen that much Grade A talent in one place in Oregon. I’m guessing they had 20 girls working. One or two were 7s. The rest were 8s or higher. I’m not one usually one to grade so crudely, but in this case I think it’s warranted. These are girls who could easily be in magazines. And they’re all under one roof.

The room was absolutely packed. The crowd seemed to be much younger than crowds you might find at other clubs. It was definitely dominated by the under-30 crowd. Lots of big watches and collared shirts. Guys you’d normally find downtown on a Saturday night. It’s not my thing, but whatever.  They also had several hookahs available for use.  I guess this is the new thing among the 20-something set?  The DJ hyped them several times right along with the drink specials.

I made my way over to the main stage and parked right on the rail. The first girl up was Dad’s girl Harley.  She’s tall and stacked.  Like the rest of the girls in the place, she probably rates a 9.  I wish I could give you a better report on her, but as soon as she hit the stage, someone decided to turn on the strobe lights.  While the strobe was pretty cool in the 80s, it really has no place in today’s clubs.  This particular strobe was located right next to her head as I looked up, so if I tried to look at Harley, I just got a face full of strobe.  Maybe that was the goal, I don’t know.  I do know I spent her entire set squinting and fearful the strobe would be activated again.

As soon as Harley finished her set, it was time to run some sort of promotion.  Each dancer made her way to a stage with a “limited edition” Stars stocking cap.  Who in their right mind would wear such a thing in public is beyond me, but whatever.  Anyway, the deal was if you purchased 2 dances from a particular girl during the time allotted, you got to keep the cap.  I was going to grab Harley so I could report back to Dad, but alas she was the first one grabbed.  So I sat back and waited for someone to ask me.  And I waited.  And I waited some more.   I have to wonder sometimes whether I even get noticed.  I tip every song, I tip the waitress for every drink (whether it’s alcohol or a Diet Coke), and I’m polite to the girls.  Yet Saturday night, despite doing all three of these things, I only had one girl ask me for a dance.  Sales, people!  You have to wade through a lot of no’s before you get to your yes.  So whatever.

After the promotion ended, I bounced around from stage to stage, catching the girls I wanted to check out.  There was the young Hispanic girl.  There was the blonde who looked like my high school crush.  And there was the girl dressed as a secretary.  She had me going right up until she took her clothes off to reveal both arms sleeved in tattoos.  Oh!  And the strobe went off again.  So that was a double whammy.

All-in-all, I spent a couple hours in there.  Had a beer ($4.50 for a bottle of Coors Light…not too shabby) and gazed upon the hottest girls in town, bar none.  If you’re in the mood for Playmates and nothing else will do, I highly recommend Stars.  Just look out for that damned strobe.