Red Bull Run

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

If Inferno were to begin accepting commercial endorsements, like NASCAR speed demons or them ho's at the Olympics, Red Bull and vodka would be the official drink of this column. Though the switch-hittin' Ciara of the PHX sometimes orders a vodka-tonic, the Kremester always asks for some Bull and hooch, and most often, the Jettster follows suit. Sucking on that particular cocktail is a little like smokin' trees sprinkled with nose candy. Okay, it ain't that good, but at least it's legal, and it gives you that two-way buzz of caffeine and alcohol.

Why, for a lifetime supply of Red Bull and Absolut, the J-girl and I would have our hineys tattooed with the Red Bull logo! (Or maybe just the J-girl, as long as I get to watch.) So when the Ying Yang Twins of P-town learned that the Scottsdale club Six (www.sixaz.com) had a Red Bull-sponsored industry night on Sundays called "Red," you know we were all over that like the King of Pop on a 12-year-old. Also, as we'd had luck with the last industry night we covered, Monday nights at ACME, we figured Six would be a safe bet for a Sunday evening.

When we roll on the Old Town lounge and restaurant about 11 p.m., there's already a line of mostly dudes waiting to gain entree. The hotties always get in without much fuss, of course, but the non-dimes and pole-waggers have to park it like it's not hot behind the velvet rope until the crowd capacity eases up. Of course, all the Kreme team has to do is flash our cards, and a little of the J-girl's flesh, and we're in like sin.

The place is packed tighter than Fat Joe's Fruit of the Loom. There are three sections, a room to the right of the long hallway entrance with a bar, couches, chairs and a pool table; a "bedroom" with a small, four-poster bed in the center, surrounded by tables and plush chairs; and a long main room with a bar running the length of it, and a raised area and DJ booth to the far right. Studly bartenders and security personnel as well as sultry waitresses wear gold 6 pins to indicate who owns 'em. According to general manager and partner Steve McDonald, Six is a magnet for sports stars such as members of the Arizona Cardinals and the Phoenix Suns. But why the name?

"We were looking for something short and easy to say," explains the super-buff McDonald. "We modeled the entire club around the theme. In the bathrooms, you'll see the letters MNO -- that's the number six on your telephone. Everywhere there are symbols or pictures like that to make you think. Like the sixth planet from the sun, or the Sixth Amendment to the Constitution. That way we use creativity to give it a little edge."

The crowd is urban, mixed-race, and for the most part Scottsdale-fly. Nearly everyone is young and beautiful, grooving as best they can in the crush to Top 40/hip-hop. Male-female ratio runs 50-50 to 60-40. My bisexual buddy and I hit the bar, start a tab, and snag a couple of vodka-Red Bulls at $5 a pop. We then circumambulate, with Jett sniffin' out the sausages this go-around.

"Now that'sa good-lookin' man!" exclaims the AC/DC Aaliyah, her peepers glued to a black gent in a blue-striped shirt and jeans. Good eye, that Jett. Fella's name is Davon, and he just happens to be a male model who splits his time between Scottsdale and Chi-town. Says he's appeared in Essence, Ebony, and Jet.

"I'm just kickin' it tonight," Davon tells us, as Jett drools. "I like Scottsdale. I've got a place here, and one in Chi-town."

"So where are the ladies the loveliest?" wonders Jett, fishing for a compliment from the handsome, athletic-lookin' cat.

"The most-real ladies are out East," replies Davon, ignoring Jett's subtle flirtation. "I'm originally from New York. People are real there. If they don't like you, they ain't putting on some big façade for you. A lot of women out here are trying to be more than what they really are. Know what I mean?"

"Heh-heh," I say, chuckling. "Yeah, the men play that game, too. There are a lot of $30,000-a-year millionaires in the clubs."

Davon laughs. "There be a whole lot of them out here. [He means Arizona.] They act like they're all that, then you find out they be at the bar workin' or at a McDonald's somewhere."

"But as far as just looks go, how do these Scottsdale honeys compare to, say, Chi-town's?" I inquire, trying to encourage some good words for the Jettster.

"You see much more here throughout the year," answers Davon. "You don't have to worry about any big coats. You get to see what you're working with before you take it home with you. That's what me and my boys always say."

We ease on away from Davon, and I give the Jettster grief over striking out.

"Don't worry none about him," I say, feigning sympathy. "If you need a soldier to put it on you, like that Destiny's Child song says, I'm willing to do you a flavor, boo."

"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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