By Amy Silverman
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Monica Alonzo and Stephen Lemons
By Chris Parker
By Michael Lacey
By Weston Phippen
Peterson has to go off and be the boss, so we kick back with our drinks -- Crown and Coke pour moi and a bloody Mary with Skyy for the J-unit, served up by Candace, a gorgeous lady in black stockings, heels and corset. Our hostess helps Jett with the parade of ecdysiasts (that's a big word for strippers, yo) from which the J-girl will select a lap-dancer. First up is a curvaceous brunette who answers to "Persistence." The copper-skinned AZ native approaches us in a slinky number cut so that you can see plenty of flesh through it, and of course, Jett's eyes are on the babe's ta-tas like white on rice. Jeez, what a lech!
"Oh, I've got to ask your ethnicity," wonders the J-girl in mid-slobber as Persistence takes a seat at our table.
"Mexican, Spanish and Portuguese," she informs us. "You like?"
"Absolutely!" replies The Horny One. "How long have you been dancing, sweetie?"
"Oh, about eight or nine months now," Persistence relates. "I started dancing at the Penthouse Club in New York, but I like this one better. It's newer, and the pace of life in Arizona is more easygoing."
"Make a lot of scrilla in this club?" I inquire.
"If I work four nights a week, I can make around $1,800," she answers, adding, "but that's just me. Everybody's different."
"I reckon Persistence pays off then, eh?" I crack.
Both gals look at me like I'm an idiot. Well, someone had to make that joke. We politely dismiss Persistence with Jett whispering to me that she'd like to see a few more candidates before she chooses one to do the lounge-chair tango with her.
"Look at as many as you want," I snarl. "But you're only getting one. Though they're only $10 down there on the floor, they're $20 up here in VIP, and I don't expect you brought your own chedda."
"My own what?"
"Exactly," I respond, as the next breezy on the hit parade sidles up next to us. Now this is what I'm talkin' 'bout. She goes by "Hollywood Babylon," and has the most unique look in the joint, something like a cross between Bettie Page and Morticia Addams, with ink-black bangs, an ivory complexion, and Egyptian-styled mascara. Known for her outrageous antics on the pole, Hollywood states that she got her name from a Misfits song, not from the Kenneth Anger book of the same title. Either way, the chick is smokin'. I know I'd pick her if I were in Jett's shoes.
"My signature is this move where I slam my heels down on the stage really hard," she says, laughing. "It's my 'pay attention to me' move. Either I'm gonna make you look my way, or scare the crap out of you."
"Cool," coos the Jettster. "Are you a big Bettie Page fan?"
"I am!" she effuses, pulling out a purse with the '50s pinup gal on it. "See, she's on my purse. And on my back, I've had a queen of hearts tattooed. That's what they used to call Bettie back in the day."
Hollywood has this strapless number on, and turns around to show us the skin art on her lower back. As Jett drools, I shoot out a question.
"What kind of guy or gal do you think picks you for a lap dance?" I ask.
"Someone who's a little more interested in the dark side. I don't get a lot of those happy guys who want a normal girl. But the good thing about this club is there's practically a girl for everyone."
HB's being called back onstage by the DJ, so we say goodbye, and the procession of beauties continues, with Jett's peepers bulging like she's buzzed on Adderall. Finally, the perfect match appears, a lass named Cody with pale skin, long brown hair and a juicy bod that Jett's eager to view up close.
"I'm bi," Cody reveals. "I prefer guys, but I love girls; they're fun."
The J-girl's eyes are glazed over with lust, so I allow Cody to lead her over to a couch, where they do their thing. I kick it with these guys Mike and Rick, and Rick's girlfriend Lois. Seems they're all VIP members. Rick's in the mortgage industry and Mike sells concrete, so I ask Mike to tell me something about concrete I don't know. Mike blanks, but Rick steps in, suddenly knowledgeable: "There's no such thing as wet concrete," Rick relates. "Paint is wet. Technically, concrete is soft, not wet."
Suddenly, this loud moan comes from behind the couch.
"Same with the girls who work in this club," I remark. "Soft and then hard. 'Cause with strippers, it's all about business, even if my pal Jett doesn't currently agree."