I have to admit, I am not a regular strip club visitor. If I think back really hard, I may need both hands to count out the amount of times I’ve found myself in one. What I do have is the experience of a wide spectrum of “gentlemen’s clubs”. Full nudity shack where you have to bring your own alcohol and the girls strangle guys who get too close to their cootch? Thank you, fraternity rush week. Place where everyone is Russian and they play techno or 80s pop? Check. Skeevy dive that I had to drag out to guests from a house party because I got a call from the bouncer? Of course!
I’ve even accidentally gone to a strip club or two because my friends invited me to places that sounded like French bistros. I didn’t stay long. I was hungry, damnit!
There has never been a place where I knew the manager by name, had “my spot” and “my regular girls”, the wait-staff knew my drink, and everyone knew my name. I’ve never met Ted Danson, either. Back in the day, that seemed like a good thing to me. Now, after one visit to Rick’s Cabaret in New York City, I have the manager’s card, a roped off couch, a staff that will bring me a Tang & Tonic before a menu, and a cute blonde dancer that could be “the one.” Funny how things change. Here’s how it happened.
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7:30pm
Eli picked me up at my apartment. Apparently, he thought I was joking when I said I was going to wear a suit.
Me: “The place looks classy, so I figured, why not?”
Eli: “Well, I guess we can say I’m your bodyguard.”
Me: “That works. I need a bodyguard when I’ve probably mocked 9 out of 10 people I pass in the street.”
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7:30pm-8:30pm
Traffic. This is why I don’t drive into the city. Alcohol consumption is the other reason, but mostly traffic. Eli told me how his dad was driving through the Midtown Tunnel with his knee, and told his cousin from Turkey that in the tunnel, the car drives itself. The cousin’s response: “Fuckin America!”
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8:35pm
Parking next to Rick’s Cabaret, in the hub of Midtown, for $12? Why don’t I drive into the city more often?
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8:45pm
A quick name drop for Lonnie Hanover and a few managers later and we’re in the club, ordering drinks. Unfortunately, no-one knew we were coming. So much for the popularity of The Inept Owl. Determined to have a good time, and starving, we order steak, because what else would you rather do while looking at bare breasts than eat a nice rare piece of meat? Only one thing: add mushrooms.
Waitress asks if we’re going to start a tab, or pay cash. I say tab. Eli says cash. since I hire people when I need to use math to figure out how many pairs of underwear will last the week, I agree to cash. Guess it’s going to be one of those nights.
I email Lonnie, the man who invited me out because we ran their club piece, via phone, thinking everyone has their life connected to their phone. Nope, I’m one of the few idiots that can’t get away from work. No answer.
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Manager #2 comes by, and he knows what’s going on: we’re the dopey kiddies that were invited to the adults’ table. Or chair, or pole, or whatever reference lingo goes on around here. Now our drinks and food are being taken care of, and we can stop counting our cash behind our jackets. We get the tour of the house: the main floor showcases the main stage, bar, and the everyday people. On the second floor is the restaurant. We opt to eat on the main floor anyway. Private rooms which look nicer than my living room surround the other side of the second floor.
The 3rd floor is flagged VIP, with a security guard, private rooms that look nicer than some hotel lobbies, and a skybox situated over the main stage and the dance balcony on the 2nd floor, so a guest can get choosy with the girls. One of the rooms has a big-screen TV in it with all amenities. My dumb-ass asks if they have karaoke, too. Manager makes a good observation: guests may get a little annoyed over shelling out the big bucks up here to listen to the girls sing.
Up on the roof is the smoker’s lounge. Yeah, it’s cold, but they have awesome heat lamps up there to keep it comfortable. Unfortunately, this is the only place that you can’t get a lap-dance. So much for New York City having everything.
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9:17pm
We’re back down at our table and our food comes right out. The steak is about as big as my face and about an inch and a quarter think. Awesome! We dive in, and aren’t bothered by any of the girls for a dance. How’s that for consideration. Or maybe they just don’t want us to get mashed potatoes on them. Meh, we’ll call it consideration. Plenty of boobage to look at, but first things first: food. .
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9:36pm
Lonnie arrives, and brings us into the roped off section of the main floor. After chatting about the place, life, and boobs, the best pampering in the world begins.
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9:47
Lonnie calls over the floor masseuse for one of the greatest sit-up massages I have ever had. By the time she’s finished I’m dizzy, my shirt is half undone, and the waitress is bring me another Tang & tonic. After Elias has his turn I ask him his expert opinion, since he’s dated a masseuse. He says that she definitely went to school.
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A duo of Santa’s bikini helpers hop the velvet rope to chat us up. Lonnie decides they should give us lap dances. Who am I to say no?
As far as I could tell, Eli’s girl looked a lot like Mila Kunis, so I knew he had his wish. My girl was Chasi, tall, blonde, and breasts that made me want to call her surgeon to thank him personally. During grind #1 I learn that she is from Minnesota, is an encyclopedia on the life of Charlie Chaplin, and has a tattoo of a cheetah. Seriously, do these places have you walk through a mind-reader field at the front door in order to find the perfect girl for you?
During grind #2, we discuss the human condition presented in the book The Lord of the Flies, our love of the late Phil Hartman, and how it is better to give than to receive. I think this girl reeeeally likes me. I give her my card so we can talk about a vagina skit she’s been thinking about, because we obviously have so much in common.
Eli says his girl was discussing metaphysics with him. The mind-reader field idea stands strong.
Lonnie jokes about how the girls chat alot when most guys just want to see some boobs jiggling in front of their faces. I agree, but think that a nice mix of titties and brains can go a long way. The tightness in my slacks are proof.
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11:05pm??
Ronnie the Limo Driver of Howard Stern fame arrives with his entourage, and we have the pleasure to be introduced to them while I’m sporting a log in my pants.
Awkward. Nobody seems to notice, tho. Score one for dim lighting.
Now we look even more like big shots, as we weren’t shooed away from the VIP area to make room. The reality of the situation starts sinking in. I could get used to this.
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More girls come up to chat us up and offer dances. I force myself to decline, as I still haven’t calmed down from the Minnesotan Minx. Besides, I can’t cheat on her. We have to make plans to go to Costa Rica for a month and buy a Keeshond puppy. Plus she’s up on the pole.
This is why I’m a horrible strip club guest. I feel the need to be monogymous to the dancers. What the hell is that? I ask Eli if that’s bad. He says, “Yes, very.” So be it.
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Around 11:35pm
I need air, so me and Eli wait for Lonnie to come back, and tell him we’re going up to the roof for a minute. On our way to the stairs Miss Minnesota and her partner in crime accost us, wondering if we’re leaving. When we explain we’re just going up top for a bit, Minnesota seems to want to come along. I mention that it may be a bit cold, considering her attire. Her Mila Kunis doppleganger doesn’t seem to want to go anyway, so we decide to find each other when I come back down.
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11:40pm
Aaaah, air. Just what the doctor ordered.
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11:45pm
When I get back downstairs, a group of the girls are surrounding the couch we’re sitting at. Finally, I see why, the real reason we came to Rick’s: : our free hat! Unfortunately, there was only one available, so while Eli and I dueled to the death, the girls disappeared. Their loss. (FYI: Eli claimed victory over the hat.)
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Midnight
After a bit more pampering and booty-shaking (I finally got my nerve back), Eli reminds me that we have a birthday party to make an appearance at. Dammit. And Minnesota is at the other end of the room working. Oh well. I’m sure she’ll be calling the moment she has a break.
Lonnie sends us off with a night-cap dance. Apparently this new girl grinding me was the Miss Siberia pageant winner. I can’t be surprised. All these women are amazing. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, she’s not quite as talkative as Minnesota. Works for me.
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12:30am
We say our goodbyes, tip the staff, and thank Lonnie over and over for making us kings for a night. We’ll be back. Oh yes, we will be back.
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P.S.-The fantasy of getting a call from the Minnesotan Minx has yet to be realized. Doesn’t matter. It did what it needed to make this night one to remember for a long time: when the lowly jesters were treated like kings.