By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
By Stephen Lemons
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Dulce Paloma Baltazar Pedraza
By Ray Stern
It's a hot, humpalicious night in the 'Zona, and yours truly's pounding down pistachio at the local Baskin-Robbins. Suddenly, a fembot frame darkens my dish.
"Knew I'd find you here," says the Jettster. "We have to work tonight, Porky. Besides, aren't you supposed to be on a diet?"
"Yeah, I've been trying -- unsuccessfully -- to lose 116 pounds of lesbian. Where you wanna go? Another skeezer bar?"
"Wednesday night is ladies' night at Myst in Scottsdale, fool," she spits. "Eat up, and let's roll. They've got more fly bitches there than in a Nelly video."
About 15 minutes later, we arrive at the labyrinthine Snottsdale club, previously known as Sanctuary (Skank-tuary to its detractors), but recently rechristened Myst. We do a quick tour of the environs: the dance floor with go-go dancers dressed in negligees; a large, swank billiards room with folks smokin' cee-gars; various lounge rooms with babes curling up against stud-muffins; and a big VIP section upstairs with skyboxes and more thick-necked security goons than at a Hollywood première. At the moment, the DJ is rockin' J-Kwon's "Tipsy."
We head for the huge, modernistic patio, where there's a bar, and plenty of couches and tables filled with the beautiful people of the 480. Straight up, we hit it off with two of the hottest shorties in eyesight, Renee Benefield, 23, and Kathleen Grigg, 26, both freelance belly dancers, which of course pushes Jett's libido into fifth gear.
"I work part-time in day care," says the petite Benefield, who has long, inky-black hair with barrettes and pale white skin. "I'm also an actress, and I belly-dance. Right now, I dance at this Middle Eastern restaurant named Sinbad in Tempe."
"Sounds like a lot to jiggle, uh, juggle," says Jett, her mental film projector whirring. "But I'd love to watch you dance."
"Thanks," says Benefield, so far unsuspecting of Jett's lipsticker tendencies. "Day care isn't what I really want to do, but it's okay. I do the belly-dancing for exercise and self-expression. And I'm going to be acting in an independent horror film this summer called The Darkness."
"I could see you half-naked and screaming," leers Jett. That's when I decide to interrupt before things get out of control.
"Uh, what she means is that you have the perfect look for a scream queen," I explain, jabbing Jett in the ribs. "Is it going to be shot around here? How did you find out about it?"
"It's going to be filmed in Arkansas, in the forest somewhere. I heard about it from an e-mail I got. I went in and auditioned, and then they called me back and told me I got the part."
"Arkansas, eh? Are you sure it's on the up and up?" I ask. "We don't want to read about you in the paper as missing in the Ozarks somewhere."
"I asked the filmmakers about that, and they said they're not high-budget enough for it to be a snuff film," she says, laughing. "They seemed pretty cool. It's gonna be a slasher movie -- in the woods, an unknown killer, with a little bit of the supernatural thrown in."
"Sounds kinda like The Blair Witch Project," I remark, "where those filmmakers get lost in the woods."
"Well, we're supposed to be staying in a hotel when we're not filming, but who knows what's going to happen. It's sort of exciting. It's my first real acting gig other than high school or local theater."
Jett turns to Benefield's friend, a long-legged brunette stunner. "Mmmm, you've gotta be an actress, too!?"
"No, but I'm a belly dancer also," she says, smiling. "I work in a Greek restaurant in Phoenix called Bacchanal, and in a hookah bar in Tempe called Oasis."
Jett's eyes bulge. "A hooker bar!?"
"That's hoo-kah, not hooker, ya dope." I grimace. "A hookah is a water pipe."
Before Jett sticks her Pradas in her pie-hole again, we wish the girls luck with their respective careers, and move on to a table of three fellas and one gal sitting nearby. They introduce themselves as Joseph Dominguez, Danielle Stark, Tod Kaplan and Alfredo Martinez. Stark, 21, is a pretty blonde from New Orleans, at ASU studying communications. She's not dating any of these guys, as one might suspect. Instead, they seem to be cock-blocking for her.
"So how did you meet?" I ask.
"Actually, I met them on my first night in Arizona. I was so drunk that I pulled over into a parking lot and said, 'I can't drive.' These two [Dominguez and Martinez] were there. So they drove me to the club I was trying to find."
"That's trusting," I say. "I mean, they could have been, like, serial killers."
"Yeah, I know," she replies.
"Er, and you weren't inebriated enough, so you had to go to another club?"
"Egg-zactly," she says, taking a swig from her Corona. "Now, they're kind of like my entourage."
I look around, but Jett's disappeared on me. Probably scoring coochie on the dance floor. (Sigh.) But I shouldn't be playa hatin'. I continue the confab with Danielle's pals: "So, Joseph, gotten any phone numbers yet, playboy?"