Loungin' With Lucifer

Our night owls hit the street for some action

Ten o'clock in P-town, my second Ketel One on the rocks, and still no sign of Jett. Wonder what's keeping that bee-ahtch? Not that I wouldn't be more than satisfied to sit on this barstool for a while and bathe my liver in a river of vodka, but damn, girl, we have to roll on this Scottsdale club before it gets too late. Who does she think she is, the lesbian Beyoncé?

More than a few fellas start panting when Jett comes around. But that's all the better for her to steal their girlfriends when they're least expecting it. About five-five, with short black hair and enough cleavage to make a Mormon hail Old Scratch, she's a solid eight in the het world. However, because she looks at men as if they were fence posts, I find her as sexy as that hirsute wife-beater-wearin' oaf from My Big Fat Obnoxious Fiancé. The feeling, of course, is mutual.

But, hey, we get along or we wouldn't get hammered together, right? She sometimes refers to me as Big Pun because of my waistline, and I call her Jett, because she reminds me of Joan Jett when she rocks that black-leather jacket of hers. Actually, I answer to Kreme, because I'm all about Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I can eat a dozen Bavarians (you know, the cream-filled kind) and polish off a quart of spiked milk without coming up for air.


"Ready to ride, K?" Jett sidles up to the bar with a chick on her arm who looks like a blond Penlope Cruz. "This is Isabelle. Okay if I bring her along?"

I shrug. "The more lesbians, the better. I thought we said 9:30?"

"Suddenly you have work ethic? I had to pick up Isabelle. With the two of us on your arms, you'll look like Big Poppa."

"Yeah, the Notorious F.A.T.," I grunt. I pay my tab, and we're out the door, ready for Devil's Martini. Started in Toronto by owner Richard Geddes, there are two in Scottsdale: one in Old Town, and a newer one in north Scottsdale. He plans to expand to San Diego and beyond.

Tonight we're hitting the Old Town facility at 4175 North Goldwater Boulevard, a squat, yellowish brick building with arched windows and a vague aura of malevolence. Guidos in dark suits guard the velvet rope. Some chucklehead with spiked hair tries sneaking past them and is promptly swatted back. Another in white athletic shoes is denied entry until he procures more stylish soles.

"These shoes cost $200 a fucking pair!" he yells, stomping off.

"There's a dress code?" I ask Jett.

"Resort casual," she says.

"They do that with the Pumas in L.A. to keep out the gangbangers."

She shrugs, "They do it here 'cause it's Snottsdale."

The bouncers espy Isabelle -- our babeage extraordinaire -- and wave us through. Gals get in free. Possessing the male appendage costs me $10. Nothing but trouble, that Y chromosome.

We head for the main dance hall, where hordes of nubile creatures in estrus rub up against each other. There's a 60-40 female-to-male split, but most guys seem resigned to gawking. All about the stark, whitewashed club are daises these sluts hop atop for go-go dancing with each other. Girls gone wild in Scottsdale.

"Look at the tits on that one!" exclaims Jett. Some cleavage more cavernous than hers passes us.

"Roll your tongue back into your mouth, bubba," I retort to my lipsticker sidekick.

"No harm in lookin', right, Isabelle?" says Jett, with a leer that would get most guys arrested.

"She's cute, but I like the one in the brown leather jacket over there," says Iz.

"You two are hornier than Ashton Kutcher at a Depends convention. Now I really need a drink."

"Too crowded here, let's go across the hall," says Jett, tugging my sleeve.

We enter a room dominated by a large, square bar. The action's only two or three deep here. Well-heeled, well-coifed 25- to 40-year-olds buzz about, reeking of perfume and cologne. Bar staff are dressed in white shirts and slacks. Very South Beach. A hole opens up for us, and we dive in. The ladies order Absolut and tonic. For a change of pace, I ask the specialty of the house.

"A Red-Headed Slut," says a barkeep.

"Don't tell me my mother's been here, too."


"What's in it?" I go on.

"Jaeger, peach schnapps and cranberry," says Sir Studly, with a jaw as square as Jennifer Aniston's.

"Ketel One on the rocks," I tell him. Can't abide the frou-frou stuff.

As my mixologist plies his trade, there's a commotion.

Some bald-headed goon with a gray goatee kicks this cheesedick beside him. The assaultee starts yelling, "I got my boys over here!" as a lass with long, brown hair in a perm pushes him away from Mr. Clean. Apparently the guy made the mistake of asking Curly Joe to "Hurry up." Luckily, the girlfriend intervened, or chrome dome would've had him searching the tile for his incisors.

Jett screams in my ear over an OutKast joint. "Iz and I are gonna check out the ladies' room."

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