By New Times
By Connor Radnovich
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Ray Stern
By Keegan Hamilton
By Matthew Hendley
By Monica Alonzo
By Monica Alonzo
It's 'round midnight on a Thursday eve, and yours truly, Kreme, is at Scottsdale's Pussycat Lounge getting his fat fanny slapped by the finest dime in the hizz-ouse, a blonde cutie by the name of Victoria. Queen Vic is laughing her pretty little ass off, laid-back in this big circular sex swing off to one side of the club as she whacks my rhino-size rear over and over to the thump of Pink Floyd's The Wall. A moment before, the 21-year-old ASU broadcasting major asked if I wanted to jump in the swing with her while Jett snapped a pic.
"Um, I'd love to, but . . ." I stammer, trailing off.
"He'd love to, but if Kreme jumped in that thing, girl, it'd crash through the floor and take the two of you all the way to China," spits my newly bisexual sidekick Jett, shaking her head in disbelief.
"Don't listen to her, she's just jealous," I smirk. "So what do you like about the Pussycat Lounge?"
"Brass poles and chairs!" croons Vic, making a reference to the brass stripper poles on this side of the club, and to the sexy swing in which she's ensconced.
Indeed, after the club-hoppin' honeys at the PCL get some libations into their bods, they hit this adult jungle gym to the right of the lounge with full force, while the dudes watch and drool. Even as I conversate with Victoria, some Nimrod nearby makes a comment to the J-girl that I'm "ruining his game." Heh-heh, better to be a playa than a hata, peckerwood.
This is when the DJ, who's been droppin' hip-hop most of the night, sneaks in some Pink Floyd, and I do a little dance to impress the Vic-ster. Out of nowhere, she turns all dominatrix on me.
"I like to spank," she says, cracking up with each whack of my backside. "But I don't like to get spanked."
After I've been beaten raw, Mistress Vic allows her slave a breather, and I ask her what it would take for a fella in the club to step to her correct.
"Ask my name without touching my boobs or my ass," she answers, sipping on her vodka-soda.
Just then, the bi-Eva Longoria pulls me aside, buggin' out like Whitney on Bobby:
"Are you gonna talk to that blonde all night?" she wonders.
"Negative, Ghost Rider," squawks the switch-hittin' squaw. "Don't get it twisted. We've just got work to do. Plus, you've got about as much chance of stickin' it to that squirrel as Jessica Simpson does of becoming a brain surgeon."
Sigh. . . . The Jettster's correct, but Kreme's gotta dream, baby. And there's plenty to fantasize about at the PCL. When we first hit the dope spot a little after 10 p.m., it was a serious sausage fest, with only a smattering of female hormones present, mostly in the personages of the hottie bartenderesses, with their low-cut black tees. But some two hours later, PCL's one big room is bumpin', with a 50-50 male to femmebot ratio.
In the back is a big bar, and over it some pic of a chick in a cowgirl hat flippin' the bird. In front of the bar is a large area where folks congregate, sip cocktails, and bump and grind. On one side is a little grotto with low couches, and the aforementioned brass poles and sex swing. (I don't know if it's reallya sex swing, but that's what the party people call it.) Occasionally, chicklettes hit the poles and pull stripper moves, and couples have been known to spoon, and play tonsil hockey on the swing. On the opposite side is a slightly more staid area with couches and tables. Overall, the PCL has a sexy atmosphere, the kinda place you might hook up at if that bizz-atch you're parlayin' with is on her fourth cosmo.
Actually, by now, Jett's on her third cosmo, and feelin' pretty randy. She espies a tall black dude who's just strolled in with his crew, and whispers to me, "Check this out, black guys loveme!"
She slides up to the cat, and beams her pearly whites. "I'm Jett, what's your name?"
"Steve Johnson," he tells us. "I'm in from Washington, D.C., visiting friends."
"Chocolate City!" squeals the Horny One. "So what do you think of Scottsdale?"
"I like it," smiles the laid-back gent, who works for the government as a grant writer. "It's a nice area, and this is where the party's happenin'. A buddy of mine's getting married, so that's why I flew in. We kicked it at home last night. Tonight we want to rock out."
"Where were you before hittin' the PCL?" I inquire.
"We got something to eat, and then we hit a few bars, you know, to see what the vibe is," replies Johnson, 26.
"What restaurant were you eating at?"
"I'm too drunk to even remember right now," says Johnson, who doesn't look the least bit faded. "I've been drinking margaritas, beers, scotch, everything, man, everything."