By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
Dime time. That means, 10 o'clock on a Thursday night, and I'm chillin' at my homegirl Jett's pad as she readies herself to ride on da club. The crib's split between her side and that belonging to her roommate, T-Dog. One guess which side looks like a Hummer did doughnuts in the middle of it.
"I thought chicks were supposed to be, uh, like, neat 'n' stuff," I say, rubbing my chin, and eyeing a pile of dirty underwear.
"Well, this chick isn't," Johnny Depp in drag replies, coming out of the bathroom in a jean jacket and high-heeled black boots. "I really don't want to do the Biz tonight. Everybody hates me there."
"Payback for breakin' so many hearts, dude," I say, as Jett primps a little more. "You can't let the haters win. It's just like 9/11. You gotta show the world you're walkin' tall like The Rock. Anyway, how long can we ignore P-town's premier lesbian venue?"
"All right, all right!" she says, holding up her arms dramatically. "Lez-be-on our way, Notorious P.I.G. And don't embarrass me by slobbering all over the sistahs. One thing they hate more than me is straight guys trying to pick them up."
"Maybe I can pass for a gay guy?" I wonder.
"Or a bull dyke," mumbles Jett.
We're out of the apartment faster than Shy-town's Twista can rap.
Cut to the parking lot Ain't Nobody's Bizness shares with a bowling alley and a Filiberto's, at 3031 East Indian School Road, where scores of so-called lipstickers (hot lesbians), mullets (lesbians who look like me in a wig) and bois (small, boyish-looking lesbians) are climbing out of their autos and headin' for the door to the dance floor.
There's no cover, and we enter to the sound of DJ Trina (one of Jett's ex-flames) playing Petey Pablo's latest joint "Freek-a-Leek." To one side, there are three or so pool tables converted for cocktails with sheets of plywood. On the other end of the large hall is a long bar where you can get a small pitcher of Bud Light for $2, the beer taps decorated with gay-pride-style rainbow flag stickers. Up on the wall behind the bar is the only art in the place: the outlines of three curvaceous nude female torsos -- headless, armless and legless, backlit by red neon. I'll say one thing about gay chicks, they've got their priorities straight.
Between the pool tables and the bar, there's a large dance floor where Pink wanna-bes in wife-beaters and punkish 'dos get low with partners in Adidas kicks, fly windbreakers and lids cocked to one side. Green and purple lights flick back and forth, a mirrored disco ball spins, and all about, high up near the ceilings, are TV sets showing the action on the dance floor. In the far back, there's a platform partly surrounded by a tall chain-link fence with some booths and tables for folks to kick it.
We head to the bar and grab some vodka tonics. Everyone seems more patient and polite than in the average club. Folks even queue up at the ends of the bar to make their drink orders. I'm surprised by the number of gay dudes dancing with each other.
"There are a lot of queer guys in here, too. Thought this was a girls' club?" I ask, yelling into the L-word Usher's ear.
"They like it 'cause there's less pressure," she yells back. "In a gay men's club, it's all about looks and pickin' up. Here, they just come to dance."
We suck down our drinks and rotate outside, because it's bumpin' too hard to do more than scream. Outside are clusters of peeps socializing. Almost immediately, there's a little drama as one of Jett's former flames sidles up to us. It's Misty, a petite cutie with straight brown bangs and purple eyeshade, dressed in red pants, yellow wrestling shoes, and a black, sleeveless jacket. Actually, she doesn't seem to hate Jett at all, though she confides to me that, "I think Jett's hair looks better in a pompadour."
Jett butts in, "Misty, tell him about the car accident you were in."
"I like to talk on the phone a lot," Misty says in a singsong voice, her eyes growing wide, "so I kinda backed into someone when I wasn't paying any attention. I was really upset. I've never been in an accident before."
"Did you pull a Bishop O'Brien?" I ask.
"What? No! Actually, it could have been their fault. But I don't know, because I was on the cell phone," she says, lighting up a menthol ciggie.
"Misty, you're an insurance agent's wet dream," I tell her. "Somewhere out there, there's an actuarial table with your name on it."
Bored with a former conquest, Jett says, "Hey, let's talk to Pippi Longstocking over there."
Who's Ashley Burson, 21, a sweet, fetching lass with short black hair, pigtails and various types of tattoos and piercings all over her body.
Come to find out she's a member in good standing of Phoenix's Church of Body Modification, which is run by her boyfriend Steve Haworth. In a red halter, short pleated skirt, thigh-high, multicolored socks and chunky black Mary Janes, she looks like some sort of demonic cheerleader at a Marilyn Manson concert. I ask her about a swollen, pink scar in the middle of her chest.