Red Bull Run

P-town's Pleasure Squad squeezes into Scottsdale's swank Six Lounge for a Satanic Red Sunday.

"I want a stick man, Kreme," snarls the Trina of the PHX. "Not a twig man. Damn, I need another drink! Why don't you check out the, uh, bedroom while I swim upstream to the bar?"

"I'll warm the bed up for you, sweetie," I call after Jett as she trudges off. In the boudoir, I spot a threesome seated on the edge of the bed, and decide to make it a foursome. Before me are Sharae Walker, a gorgeous ebony dime-piece, and her pals Rene Stricker and Marco. They all work for a high-end hair salon named Sachi, one block north of Camelback on Scottsdale Road.

"I do hair there, Sharae is a makeup artist, and Marco is half-hair stylist and half-homeless," Rene says, laughing. "Actually, he works right behind me."

Naturally, they all have terrific hair.

"You know the great thing about hair?" asks Rene, a pale, distinguished-looking fella. "It grows back. Thank God everybody isn't bald in the world. We'd all be broke!"

"There's job security for you," I say, smirking. "So what's the best tip you've ever gotten."

Rene pauses for a moment: "To fear the Lord! That's the best tip."

"Nutty! And who's the weirdest person whose follicles you've fluffed?"

"This man who was demon-possessed in Sedona," Rene tells me without batting an eye. "He would have two or three different voices talk out of him at times. Very, very freaky! He just walked into the salon where I was working, and wanted me to do his hair. But a lot of those people up there, at that time in the '70s, they were into the occult and black witchcraft. It was like watching that movie The Exorcist."

"Minus the pea soup, I hope," I crack. "Jeez, dude, no wonder you fear the Lord!"

About that time, Jett returns from her foray to the bar. Apparently, she did some scouting on her way back.

"C'mon, Kreme," she urges, hooking my arm. "I've spotted a hottie I want to talk to."

"But I was just having this fascinating discussion about demon-possession, and hair styling!"

"Whatever," snaps Jett, unimpressed. "No one wants to read about that shit. This is for a clubs column, Kreme. It's all about sex-sex-sex."

"No, Six-Six-Six," I respond, with a shiver. "I'll bet Satan even wears a shiny shirt in Hell."

"Shush, or you'll ruin my chance with this stud muffin," says Jett, as we make our way to the next room and pull up beside Roger, a suave black guy in a white cap and form-fitting tee shirt that shows off his pecs. Come to find out Roger teaches golf in NYC and is checking out the Southwest as an alternative to Gotham winters.

"I usually go to Florida this time of year, but I'm at a point in my life where I say, 'You know what? Let me try the West,'" says Roger. "I like Phoenix. The people are very cool here."

"Are you from the Islands?" Jett wonders about his accent, nearly turning into a puddle as she speaks.

"I was born and raised in Jamaica," he affirms. "I grew up on a golf course in Jamaica. Golf is pretty big there because they used to have the Johnny Walker Open and they have the Jamaican Open."

Jett's so bedazzled by this Island hunk's beauty that she starts doing her "deer in the headlights" imitation, so I jump in.

"You've come to the right place; this area has more golf courses than anywhere in the world. Ever meet Tiger Woods?" I ask.

"Yeah, I've met him. I knew Tiger before he was Tiger," Roger replies. "You ever hear of the Wingfoot Golf Club? That's where I work. It's one of the top 10 golf clubs in the nation. I work with the rich and the famous. Like Michael Jordan, I've been working with that guy for like seven years. Ahmad Rashad, Julius "Dr. J" Erving, Rudy Giuliani, Jack Nicholson, a lot of them I've worked with."

"Not too shabby," I say, impressed. "So if you're working with someone who already knows a lot about golf, what do you do to further improve their game?"

"Two heads are better than one," relates Roger. "Let's say you know the game and I know the game, so I'll stand here and watch you. If I see an error, I can show you what's wrong. We all make errors."

"Tell me about it. I just want to get past 'Big Ben' at Castles-n-Coasters."

We bid Roger adieu, and head back into the throng. Jett's especially pissed at herself for her double bogey this evening.

"I'm such a spaz," she spits. "At this rate, I may end up going a whole week without, well, you know."

"You think about bonin' too much, young Padawan," I advise, doing my best Obi-wan. "Follow my lead, and you can't go wrong."

"Sheesh! Follow your lead, Master Bates, and the only sex I'll be having any time soon is with myself!"

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