I was warned. And in my heart, I knew what I was in for. Yet there it was, across the street from Coach’s, where I’d gone to witness the UFC card New Year’s weekend. The card was pretty good. The service blew chunks. Coash’s was packed to the gills for the New England-New York Giants/UFC quinella. Yet there was only one server on the floor. One! So it was with great expectation that I drove across the street and walked in to the Sunset Strip. I mean it couldn’t be any worse than Coach’s, could it?
The first sign of trouble was literally the sign out front.
Sunset Strip: Exit 69
Seriously? That’s their hook? “Sixty-nine, Dude!” is so 1988. The world has moved way beyond that. Yet there it is. They must be so proud.
Like most other clubs in town, Sunset Strip didn’t start out as a strip club. It looks like it was probably a Denny’s in a past life. There’s nothing wrong with that, by the way. Unlike most of the competition around town, who have chosen to paint their buildings black so as not to be seen from the street after dark, Sunset Strip has chosen a garish pink. All the better to advertise, I suppose. Unlike their competition though, their parking lot was well lit and well maintained.
It being a Saturday night, I came prepared with an extra $5 and $10 for the cover. Neither was required, though, as the door was unmanned. By design? By accident? Who knows! I do know that the club is missing out on serious revenue if they’re not going to hit up their customers on the weekend. I mean personally I’m all for having no cover, because that gives me more money to spend on girls or beverages, but a club that doesn’t charge a door tax isn’t long for this world, is it?
I surveyed the room as I made my way toward the bar. It was just before 9:30 and they only had one of two stages going. And no one was sitting at the rail! It looked like a bad juice bar, as two rows of guys nursed their beverages while girl after girl worked the pole. Sensing opportunity, I grabbed my Coors Light and settled in.
Actually, wait a minute. A quick note on the bartender. Oh dear God, the bartender. A petite little brunette, with a mini-skirt that was maybe six-inches from top to bottom and a backless top that showed off her shoulders and waist to perfection. Oh man. It was easily the best outfit in the house and she was one of the three hottest girls in the club. Easily. Unfortunately she wasn’t taking any of it off. And in a way, that’s fine. Sometimes the unattainable ones are the hottest. Am I right? Whoever you are, I love you. All that stuff about Scarlett? That’s just professional courtesy.
Where was I? Oh yeah. The stage. I settled in close to the stage entrance with my back to the video poker machines and couches. It was a better way to check out the bar and the other stage, which opened shortly after I arrived. There were probably three of us occupying the 15 or so chairs surrounding the stage. For whatever reason, the girls paid all their attention to the guys on the other side. I was putting just as much money up on the rail, but getting none of the love.
It turned out it was fine. As the girls rotated in, they became more and more vulgar. Pretending to jerk-off the pole, pretending to penetrate themselves, and pretending to fellate guys at the rack. So very cliche. And it really didn’t do anything for me. It seemed like a strip club for beginners. And I ain’t a beginner.
Two beginners did show up though. They were probably 21, wearing the white hoodies with the white baseball caps turned to two o’clock. You know the types. They sat in in corner, transfixed. But neither of them tipped. Oh, they rapped along with whatever 50-Cent tune was playing and they posed like they were all that, but no money ever went to the rail. The DJ reminded them to tip. Nothing. Yet the girls continued to flirt with them. Giving them all the angles and all the winks. Me? I’d give ‘em money for every tune, but I got bupkis. Oh, I got a polite thank you as they breezed by, sweeping my dollar onto the floor, but beyond that…nothing. Not even an invitation for a private dance. Now on a slow night, when you’ve got a guy consistently tipping every tune, why on Earth wouldn’t you ask for a dance? I swear, I’ll never understand you girls.
To continue with the vulgar entendre theme of the evening, it was also Free Porn night. Around 10 or so, the DJ announced that during each girl’s set, the customer who tipped the most would win free porn! Woooooo!!!!!! There was a stack of used dvd’s sitting at the DJ booth. Before each girl took the stage, she’d take a dvd, show it off to the guys at the rail, then proceed to do her thing. The promotion failed on two distinct levels. First, there was no sponsor. There are any number of production companies who would love to get their product into the hands of potential customers. Why don’t you call one of them and work out some sort of deal? Instead, they went and bought up the bargain bin at Fantasy Video and thought that would suffice. Porn is porn, right?
Well, not exactly. And that brings me to my second point. Porn is a very personal thing. What does it for me, is probably not what does it for you. If there was one “type” for everyone, then there would only be one magazine and one production company. But there aren’t. There are thousands of each. For example, it’s sort of diversity that gives this … ummmm … guy a career (that link is positively radioactive, by the way … it’s best viewed at home, with the curtains drawn.) So to just hand me a random piece of porn and believe it will make me a loyal and satisfied customer is to not understand me or porn at all. And judging by the number of unclaimed dvd’s I’m not alone.
I finally packed it in around 11:30. I’m glad I went and all, but there are two way better options in town in Stars (which I really need to get back to) and the D2. Even Hotties, I would say, is better, if only because the talent is a hair better. Just stay away from the pushy one.