Wet Dreams

Our Dirty Phat Bastard rides solo at Shepherd's Super Soak-Her Sunday.

First up, this week's column is dedicated to ex-Wu Tang warrior Ol' Dirty Bastard (a.k.a. Russell Jones), who on November 13, just two days short of his 36th birthday, graduated to that big pimp parlor in the sky, and is now no doubt sippin' Cristal with fellow legends like Biggie, Tupac, Big L, and Rick James, bitch. ODB put the freakin' wild in buck and was a personal inspiration. R.I.P., playa.

Big Baby Jesus (as ODB was also known) would've loved messin' with Jett now that she's gone bi, and he especially would have enjoyed this week's Inferno outing to Shepherd's Nite Club (www.clubshep.com) on Cactus Road, a quarter-mile west of the 51. Club Shep's renowned for its Super Soak-Her Sundays, a wet tee-shirt contest where two of a kind always beats a flush. Winner of the contest can cop anywhere from a C-note to $150, and I had visions of pimpin' out the J-grrl to put some paper in my pocket. But, unfortunately, the Anne Heche of P-town was nursing a migraine the size of Minnesota, so I had to ride on Club Shep solo.

Good thing Super Soak-Her is el cheapo, nephew. Free for the honeys, and a mere $3 to $4 cover for the fellas. The "soaking" usually starts around 10:30 to 11 p.m., and it pays to get there early to snag a dope spot from which to survey the proceedings. Normally, Club Shep is just a cool neighborhood hang with a long bar, a DJ, a kitchen serving burgers and wings, and a game room in the back with a pool table, darts and a video game. But on the Lord's Night, girls 21 and up from all over the Valley come in to compete for the big cash prize, as well as for runner-up prizes like bar tabs, gift certificates and whatnot. Five judges are chosen from the crowd to rate some five to seven girls gone wild as they're doused with ice-cold water, standing in a big metal tub, wearing promotional wife-beaters and panties supplied by the establishment. The end result is a perv's paradise, as you can practically peep the goodies beneath.

"We don't hire some professional company to bring in girls and have them perform, like other places," co-owner Allen Rebenstorf explains when I arrive. "Our contestants are typically regular people. That's kind of the attraction. Anyone you see in here on another night of the week, you may also see Sunday evenings. So if you have a fantasy of hooking up with someone . . ."

I chuckle. "I see, you might get to examine the goods before you take 'em home, if you're lucky. What are you guys usually doing during the show?"

Says Brian Bostwick, Allen's partner, "See, by law, the girls can't show their nipples. So they put on the wife-beaters, but they always cut them to get them looking really sexy. Our job is to make sure they don't go too far."

"Tough work you two have," I say, eyeing some of the lovelies already filtering in for the evening, as well as the sizzling hot waitresses and bartenders at Shepherd's. Seems Rebenstorf and Bostwick have only owned the place since earlier this year, though both Shep's and the wet-tee thing have been around for a while. Rebenstorf is blond and looks straight as an arrow, while Bostwick has short brown hair and a goatee, reminiscent of an ASU grad student.

"Now I've gotta ask about the pictures you have on your other Web site, http://soak-her.com," I say. "It looks like the judges are getting lap dances."

"Funny you should ask, Kreme. We've had to tone things down a little bit," Rebenstorf says. "It got a little extreme, and ended up being only the strip-club chicks participating, because the local gals didn't want to wrap their legs around some stranger's face. The lap-dance thing doesn't happen anymore, but the girls can still do all the dancing they want, and the judges are right up close."

Rebenstorf and Bostwick have to prepare for the night's festivities, so I let them do their thing as I grab a vodka-Red Bull and chat up the lovely seated next to me. Her name's Danyella, she's 21 and has a smokin' bod, with legs men'd kill for. She's showing them off in a short-short dress, some wicked red F-me pumps, and white, thigh-high stockings. Seems she's competed in the contest four times before, but she's not gonna be up there tonight.

"I just did it for fun," says Dynamite D. "It was really cold! I didn't win."

"You didn't win?!" I yelp in amazement. "Who were you competing against, supermodels?"

"Thanks," she replies, taking a swig of Bud Light. "But a lot of the girls who compete, sometimes they're, uh, bigger than you in certain areas. And then, all the guys rate differently, so what can you do?"

"Was your boyfriend jealous of you doing that?"

"I don't have a boyfriend," she says, laughing. "Men are losers, so I just try to stick to myself. I come here all the time, because it's a friendly place and because I live just up the street."

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