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.

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I sat through a few sets when it became apparent that the girls who normally worked Stars had been replaced by tattooed Suicide Girls.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.

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.