Less than an hour into our survey of the sprawling Scottsdale party palace Barcelona, and already Jett's bent over with a black gent's teeth in her pretty posterior. And sadly, that black gent ain't me.
It's tamer than it sounds. The ambisexual Giselle of the PHX still has her jeans on, and to keep it real, after 10:30 p.m. at Barcelona on a Friday or Saturday eve, everyone in the house gets extra-friendly. Situated at 15440 Greenway-Hayden Loop, this modern-lookin' Spanish castle starts off as an old-school supper club earlier in the evening, the sort of place your 'rents would go for some surf-n-turf and a bottle of fine vino while they listen to the classic R&B sounds of this live, loungy house act Angelo and Veronica (www.barcelonadining.com). Then after 10 p.m., someone pushes a button, the dance floor is cleared of tables, video projection screens descend and all the hot twenty- and thirtysomethings begin streaming in, preparing for the high-energy, Vegas-like club scene that shifts into overdrive once the bootylicious, hip-hop house band Zowie Bowie hits the stage.
But back to the pearly whites in the Jettster's britches. They belong to Chad, a Boston fireman, who's in Scottsdale visiting his childhood friend Randolph, a baller and AZ transplant who makes mega-bucks as a chemical engineer and computer programmer. Hell, Sir Randolph even bought the Jettster and me Jäger bombers! Now that's player-ism. And since my momma taught me how to share, and since both cats had been admiring the J-girl's onion, I decide to let Chad chomp on the Jettster's rump. It's the least a pimp can do.
I offer the same to Randolph, but he takes a pass due to his marital status.
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"My wife makes six figures," Rudolph tells us. "So I might look, but I don't play."
"Smart fella," I intone. "So why are you out here in the desert now, mon?"
"There are a lot of opportunities in Arizona, whether it's the housing market or jobs," Randolph relates. "I'm in the IT field, and it's very good for that here. I wish I'd moved two years ago. I love it out here."
That's when Chad comes up for air. "Is mine the first you've bitten tonight?" Jett wonders.
"The first," chuckles Chad. "But hopefully not the last."
"Be honest, Chad, it tastes like KFC, right?" I ask.
"Shut up, Kreme," screeches Jett, smackin' me on the side of my belly. "You know it tastes like filet mignon!"
"Hey, I ain't never been down there, so don't ask for no critiques," I spit. "Anyway, Chad, Randolph tells me you just touched down in Phoenix today. So what do you think?"
"Phoenix and Scottsdale are fucking hot!" exclaims Chad. "Literally. When I got on the plane this morning, it was 49 degrees. When I got off the plane with my sweatshirt still on, it was 100. But there are also beautiful ladies, strong drinks and good people."
We leave Chad and Randolph behind while we head for the stage and the circular dance floor before it, which is packed and grindin' in anticipation of Zowie Bowie, the glitzy, buff 'n' bronzed act made up of frontman Chris Phillips, his partner and fiancée Marley Taylor, and their five-piece backup band. ("Zowie Bowie" is also Phillips' stage name.) Taylor's got a slammin' bod that leaves Jessica Simpson's in the dust, and Phillips is a wild man on stage, like a skinny Mike Meyers with sunglasses and spiked white hair. They cover every hot hip-hop track and then some, including hits from Mike Jones, Snoop, 50 Cent, Fat Joe and Ludacris. And they're known for getting all the dime-pieces up on stage with them to sashay as they perform.
The J-unit and I ease up on the pair before the performance for a little confab. They're chillin' like a 21st-century Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme, with Taylor rockin' a rhinestone-encrusted mic in one hand while Phillips partakes of a jumbo glass of Crown Royal. Jett's nearly speechless when confronted with Taylor's, um, glandular excess. Check it out for yourself at www.zowiebowie.com.
"Omigod, you are so awesome!" drools the Jettster, examining Taylor as if she's about to whip out a stethoscope. "Your belly is so toned. You must work out all the time."
"Thanks. It's because of our career, being onstage constantly," Marley admits. "So we do a lot of cardio, and everything else."
"How long have you guys been an item?" I ask, trying to pry the J-girl off Taylor.
"Four years," replies Taylor, "That was before the show started, which was about three and a half years ago, the same time we started playing Barcelona."
"Very small penis, and no money," joshes Phillips. "I actually think she took pity on me. She's a very charitable woman. When we met each other, we were both married to other people. We got divorces, moved in with each other, and haven't been apart for more two hours in the last four years.
"We were driving down the street one day, and said, 'We gotta learn to rap if we're gonna be in music today.' I was a paralegal, she was working in a hair salon. Now we're a million-dollar-a-year business and fly all over the country. We're also going to be in Vegas on a permanent basis beginning in April, going back and forth from Phoenix every week. We'll be hooking up with that new George Clooney hotel he's building there."
"Fess up, do you two sleep in tanning beds or what?" I ask. "You put George Hamilton to shame, bro."
"Basically, we spend every waking hour and every dime we make trying to be something we're not," laughs Phillips. "Fake hair, fake teeth, fake tans, fake boobs."
"Wait a sec, you don't have fake boobs," jests Jett, tweaking Phillips' nips, much to his delight.
'Bout then the dynamic duo has to get busy, helping the crowd get its groove on. The Jettster and I do our one-two step for a bit, then decide to check out some more of the colossal club, especially the vast patio that encircles the venue. Before we make it outside, we bump into Barcelona's owner Danny Hendon, who's been partying in the sweet VIP room, with its deep leather couches and marble tables made for bottle-poppin'. Hendon's the owner of Danny's Family Car Wash, with 14 sites in the Valley and 17 more to come. No wonder the joint's so posh; the cat who owns it has more ducats than Yahweh.
"I wanted to go to a classy place like this, one for adults," Hendon explains. "I got so tired of going down to places like Axis/Radius, I decided to build my own."
"Come on Big Daddy, I mean, Big Danny," purrs the Jettster. "You really wanted to have all these fabulous babes around you all the time."
Hendon just grins at the Jettster, while I take up the slack, "Hey, your club is tight, Mr. Hendon. We're gonna step to the patio now and see what we can see in the way of fly bitches."
On the patio, we hear Zowie Bowie break into that Kanye West joint "Golddigger" and the whole place erupts like it's the theme song for Scottsdale nightlife. That's the perception, anyway. The reality is there are plenty of shorties out here who want to party. But will they go home with you? If they're drunk enough, hell, yeah. Just tell 'em the Lexus is at the shop and the Hyundai's a loaner from the dealership. The ladies want to hook up, too, Jack. You've just got to let on that you're not a scrub.
Check this for an example: The first cluster we approach is this sexy threesome, Kara, Debra, and Patrick, with Kara acting as the spokesperson for the crew.
"So what're you three doin' out tonight?" I inquire innocently enough.
"We're lookin' to get laid," Kara from Cave Creek tells us immediately.
"Well, I'm your man," I tell Kara. "Please step right this way."
"Get your paws off her, fat boy," interjects Jett, a.k.a. Miss Coitus Interruptus. "Sorry, honey, he has work to do, plus I'm saving you from the disappointment of your life."
I hand Kara a card as the J-unit pulls me away. "Call me," I whisper, holding my hand to my head like a phone.
"You think that babe's gonna hit you up after the alcohol wears off?" Jett questions. "You really are delusional."
"One thing's for sure, I won't ever get some with you around," I tell her. "Let's at least order some food. If I can't score, at least I can eat."
"I'm sensing a pattern here," says Jett, rubbing my belly. "No wonder your nickname's Orca."
"Just more of me to love, baby," I state, flagging down a waitress as we snag a table. We order some calamari and a shrimp cocktail from a cute blonde. And while I'm noshing on some squid, the J-unit -- no doubt inspired by earlier events -- playfully nibbles on the gal's badunkadunk, sheathed though it is in black dress pants.
After our different forms of snackin', we commence to cruisin' again. Nearby, we meet these two cowboys, Ben and Bill, holding up a wall and sippin' on some Buds. Seems they're longtime regulars, and prefer Barcelona to some place with a mechanical bull.
"It's a very respectful club, and the staff treats us like gold," Bill explains. "Sometimes, some of the older ladies might ask us if we're lost. But otherwise the women love us."
"How can you not like a cowboy?" the Jettster gushes.
"Yeah, you cowpokes needn't look any further tonight," I nod at Jett. "Because you've just found a filly that needs breakin'. For God's sake, take her. She's all yours!"
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