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.
"Who peed in your Froot Loops, Missy Misdemeanor?" I answer back. "You just can't stand it when the ladies are lovin' my steelo."
"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 really a 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 love me!"
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."
Maybe that's why Johnson doesn't realize the het-friendly Jett is sprung on him. Ignoring her, Johnson heads over to the bar with his pals. Jett's crushed, but then two of her homies show up: Yvonne, a cutie-pie Chinese chick who just got out of an eight-year relationship and is on a tear, and Kristina, a hottie with long, straight hair who looks like she walked out of an Aerosmith video. We all hit the bar together, and start to get our groove on as the DJ drops some Snoop Dogg.
Before you know it, I'm chatting (yelling in their ears is more like it) with two lovelies, one blonde and one brunette. The blonde is Emily Straughn, and her brunette bud is Ariana Kasa. Both are 21, and are jumpin' off from the PCL to a party goin' down at The Venue. Straughn is a massage therapist and also works at Ra Sushi, and Kasa's at ASU studying poli-sci and Italian.
"Me and my best friend here are hanging out, ready to get rowdy," the curvaceous Kasa tells me.
"Think you guys'll get up on the poles or the swing?"
"Uh, I think we'd need shots first," says Kasa. "I've never been on the swing before."
"Okay, so I met a poli-sci dude from ASU a couple of weeks back, and he was into Bush winning," I relate. "So how do you feel about it?"
"It's a crock of shit!" responds Kasa. "Bush sucks." Beside her, Straughn nods her head in agreement.
"Wow, booful Democrats, that's always cool to come across," I state.
"We're over our depression now," continues Kasa. "The other day some guy told me that Democrats are just gold-digging white women who want everything for themselves."
"What?! That sounds more like bitches in general," I say.
"So, Emily, how much will a massage cost me?" queries the frisky, pie-eyed Jett, buttin' in.
"About $65 an hour," says Straughn, unaware of Jett's not-so-latent lesbianism. "I used to work at the Phoenician, but now I work out of my home. You make more money that way."
"Do you two work together?" Kasa asks us.
"Yeah, he's the beauty and I'm the brains-ses-es," slurs the polyamorous princess of P-town.
"Like J-Kwon says, ÔEverybody in the club gettin' tipsy,'" I say. "One more drink, and you'll be swinging from the ceiling, Jett."
"That's just cuz I only weigh like 95 pounds, not 395!" she cracks.
I figure we need to chill for a sec, so Jett, Yvonne, Kristina and I all head over to the area opposite where the sex swing is situated. We spot some playas poppin' bottles of Moet in the corner, but they're all uppity and don't want company. I dump my three liquored-up honeys in the corner where they start dancing with anything in a shiny shirt that's nearby. Hell, I let 'em do what they're gonna do. As long as they call me "Big Poppa," I'm cool with it.
I ease over to the sidelines and mop my brow. While I'm doing so, I chat with two African-American chaps named Freddy Phoenix and Big E, who're scopin' the lovelies. Big E's about my size, but taller and with his head shaved, and Freddy Phoenix is thin, with a mustache and goatee.
"We're just having a good time," says the smooth FP. "We came from another party with lots of sexy women."
"Get any numbers?"
"I got so many numbers, it's crazy," replies the FP.
"How 'bout you, Big E?"
"Ah, I'm all about business," says Big E, who's from NYC -- Staten Island, to be precise. "This is my boy right here."
"Yeah, Big E's my bodyguard," cheezes FP. "You see, I'm in adult entertainment."
"Get out! What kind? Web sites, DVDs?"
"We're still building our Web site, but it's going to be called Scottsdale Pink," explains Freddy. "We'll do DVDs mostly. It'll be like Scottsdale Gone Wild."
"Oooh, I like, I like."
"I'm the videographer," adds Big E.
The girls love tee shirts, they love tank tops, and they love money," claims Master P. "That's what we bring to them. And they love showin' themselves off. Once we've got our first DVD, then everybody'll want a piece of us."
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"Hmmm," I mutter, rubbin' my chinny-chin-chin. "I wonder if I can get in on this action."
Suddenly, Jett bumps me from behind: "It's time for the after-party, doooood," she hiccups. "And you're driving!"
"You know what, Jett," I say, putting my arm around her. "I think I've finally found you that second job you've been looking for all this time."