My dawg Jett, a.k.a. the lezzy Nelly, has been ailin' of late 'cause she got dumped by her squeeze of the week, some fine hoochie-mama with bodacious ta-tas. The girl went Unabomber on me, and locked herself in her room with some bud and a bottle of Tanqueray.
"What you need, playa, is a night at Skin," I tell her on the celly. "After a few lap dances, you'll leave that chickie in the rearview and be ready for the next one coming 'round the corner."
My lipsticker homie hadn't scored in at least 48 hours, and her hormones were ragin' like a Fallujah firefight. So before you can say "I'm Rick James, bitch," we're forking over $10 at the door of the Valley's poshest flesh pit. (Normally, it's $8 after 6 p.m. during the week. But on Fridays and Saturdays, it's $10 after 10 p.m.) The Scottsdale club is small but swank, with dark comfortable chairs scattered all around a small runway with stripper poles. Well-heeled businessmen and Scottsdale boys pack the place at 1137 North Scottsdale Road, with some of the hottest gals in the biz crawlin' all over them in nothing but dental-floss-thin G-strings. (For the uninitiated, clubs featuring exotic dancers can't legally serve alcohol if the chicks are, as they say in the biz, "totally nude.")
They've got a 50 Cent joint cranked so loud it's turning my eardrums to mush, and on the big flat-screen TVs, a classic Beavis and Butt-head is playing. Onstage, there's a dancer with legs like Charlize Theron, but no one's paying her any mind. The action's on the floor, where it looks like everyone's getting a lap dance. At the bar, as per our master plan, we hook up with our girl Isabelle who used to work at Skin, but who, like many an erstwhile exotic entertainer, has since moved on to an even more lucrative hustle: real estate. I'd given Izzy a phone shout to ask if she could help me help the Jett-ster beat the blues.
Though fully clothed, Iz is the hottest honey in the joint, with golden tresses that look as soft and tasty as cotton candy. We grab some cocktails, and then some seats.
"It's freezing in here," says Jett. "Is something wrong with the thermostat?"
"Naah," replies Iz. "They do that because it keeps the dancers' nipples hard."
"Hmm." Jett rubs her chin. "Good idea."
I hand Iz a roll of 20s and ask her to fill Jett's lap with lovelies while I chat up some dancers taking a break. Personally, I don't go for the dry-hump, especially not when it's $10 a dance plus a $10 tip. I'd rather get laid than get played.
Nearby, some guy uglier than R. Crumb has a lass who's a dead ringer for Jolene Blalock draped over him. I spot dancers Stacia, 26, and Haley, 24, resting their tootsies. Stacia's a tanned beauty with full lips and wild, dark brown hair past her shoulders. She's wearing a sheer red bikini that leaves little to the imagination. Haley's a blond cutie with blue eyes and her hair pulled back, wearing a sort of pink "Lady Marmalade" outfit with fishnet stockings. They tell me they make anywhere from $200 to $500 on a good night. I ask what they do with all their lap-dancing loot.
"Pay bills," says Stacia. "I normally go to school at ASU. I'm a design major. A junior. I want to do background layout for photographers."
"I use the money to take a vacation once a month with my boyfriend to Rocky Point or somewhere else. I'm an ex-Marine," volunteers Haley.
"The few, the proud, the nekkid," I josh. "How long did you do that?"
"Almost four years," she says, laughing. "I was a diesel mechanic. I got introduced to this scene while I was still in the military, going out with all my buddies. At first, it was kind of a dare, then I just decided to go for it. I don't have any problems being naked in front of other people. I'm an exhibitionist anyway."
"That's a beautiful thing," I say, cocking an eyebrow. "Stacia, how did you get in the biz?"
"I've been into dance for a long time," she explains. "I pretty much look at the human body as a form of art. I've had seven years of ballet, three years of jazz and two of tap."
"Now that's something I'd like to see, strip-tap! Gregory Hines might come back from the dead for that one," I say, grinning. "So do you guys ever, uh, get excited while you're performing for a guy or a girl?"
"Nope, never," says Stacia. "I'm very professional. I try to be a very clean dancer."
"Well," says Haley, slyly. "If I come into work and I haven't had any for a while, then I can get turned on, yes. It's not an every-day kinda thing, though."
"Ever experience the Big O?" I ask.
"Noooo," laughs Haley. "I'd be at work all the time if that were the case, huh?"
Out of one eye, I see Jett getting the treatment from some big blonde with high hair and nay-nays to rival Anna Nicole, which prompts a query: "You gals look all natural, which makes me wonder, how do you feel about plastic surgery to enhance your assets?"
