Posh Playas

Foxy sirens and oversexed sultans self-lubricate until the state's new 2 a.m. cutoff at Suede.

"What do you think of the new 2 a.m. deal?" I ask.

"Well, I just moved back to Arizona from Oregon, and it's been 2 a.m. there. So I'm used to that. Ever since I've been back, I'll be out at 11 or 12 o'clock, and I'll be like, 'Holy shit, these people don't party like they do in Oregon.'"

"Whoa!" I say. "That's some weak sauce, bro. 'Cause when I think about Oregon, I don't think party animals. I think beavers."

Jen Levi
Jen Levi
Dan Nickles, and pal Irene
Dan Nickles, and pal Irene
Volleyball babe Christine Garner
Volleyball babe Christine Garner

"Yeah," says Tim. "Or ducks. But people are so much happier up there as compared to here. Maybe it's the weather. But you've got your hippie dudes, your yuppie dudes, your regular dudes, and they all get along better than here. The girls up there are a lot different from down here, too."

"You mean, it's easier to get into their pants?" asks Jett, her interest piqued.

"Hell yeah!" exclaims Tim. "Up there, they're not into what I call the BBD, then Bigger Better Deal. Down here, the girls are all about that -- what kind of car you drive, what kind of house you live in, how much it's worth, and all that bullshit."

"Thing is, man, you gotta be able to spit some game," I tell him. "If you ain't got the looks, the fast car and the shiny shirt, you gotta be confident and talk your ass off. Also, it doesn't hurt if they're drunk. Which is why the 2 a.m. thing is a step in the right direction, for fellas like us."

"Look at you, giving advice on females," says Jett. "That's like Stevie Wonder driving."

"You guys got it all twisted," I tell 'em. "I've got to conversate with someone with some positivity. Y'all are making me jones for a handful of Zoloft."

I wander off, and step to this gorgeous gal with straight, shoulder-length auburn hair, sipping a glass of Chardonnay and groovin' to the beats, the warm red light of the club lighting up her lightly freckled flesh. She goes by Sandi Cristiani, and guess what? She's a DJ, too. What is this, The House of a Thousand DJs?

"So what do you think of the new drinking time, since this is our first night of it?"

"I think it's a fantastic thing for Scottsdale," she beams. "It's going to raise a lot of revenue for the bars, which are basically what keep Old Town alive."

"You think it'll bring new people out, or the same people out later?"

"The same people out later," she says. "I'll probably party later. Why not?"

"Being a DJ and a hot chick, do you have stalkers?"

"Not really," she says, laughing. "Maybe I'm not stalkable."

"Sure you are. I'd stalk you if I were so inclined. But I'm afraid of jail. Otherwise, it'd be an honor."

I could talk to Sandi all night, and into the next day, and then some, but I'm not sure she likes me enough for that sort of commitment. So I perambulate on. Jett, it seems, has flown the coop. Maybe one of her lezzy admirers slipped her a roofie.

Which leaves me to approach two more ladies all on my lonesome. It's a duo of bodacious babettes sitting to the side, each with a set of majestic mounds, if you catch my breeze. Their names? Diane Soza and Yvonne "Hurricane" Vonsh.

"Hurricane?" I ask. "So where's the eye of the storm, baby?"

The luscious Yvonne chortles, "Only a very few people know."

"Did you get that nickname because you have a temper?"

"No, because I'm from Texas," she says. "I've lived all over Texas, from Amarillo to Austin. But at the time I got it, I was living in a place that got hit a lot with hurricanes, so that's how I ended up with the nickname."

Texas is on the Gulf Coast, I recall. "Do you like it better here in the Zona?"

"Absolutely. People underrate it here, but there's much more of a party atmosphere than in other places. Life's a lot faster. And now that they've got the 2 a.m. thing going on, forget about it!"

Miss Hurricane is married, and Miss Soza is newly divorced, but with boyfriend. Both have kids, and explain that this is a "ladies' night out." Somehow their conversation turns to breasts (for real, fellas), and each cops to having had some augmentation.

"Wow, I would never have guessed," I play along.

"It's just like in Hollywood or anywhere else," says Vonsh. "If you've got the money, the sky's the limit."

"I'm actually thinking of making mine bigger," claims Soza, looking at Vonsh's enviously. "Hers are as big as her head!"

"You know, I've never been with a lady who's been enhanced," I confess, while trying not to stare and thinking of baseball -- Diamondbacks baseball -- all the while. "Are they, uh, soft or hard?"

Soza reaches over and lightly touches Vonsh's ta-tas, in a sisterly way. "Oh, they're very soft."

"Unless you're a doctor," says Vonsh proudly, "you'll never know the difference. See, without clothes, they look all natural."

Sigh . . . I have no choice but to take her word for it.

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