New York City underground

Z Jay Drew

12/03/2002

This is a review of a place that doesn't exist, discussing events that
did not occur on a date not found on the calendar.

The strip club scene in Manhattan is, we all know, dead as a doornail.
The reign of Sir Rudy Giuliani drove a stake through the heart of a
vibrant, if sordid, scene: high-mileage lap dancing in venues ranging
from the 2nd or 3rd level of hell (Harmony, both locations) to
high-end chrome palaces (Scores, Tens, etc.). Before Herr Rudy, NYC
was a lapping destination city, worth a detour while travelling and
and extra day on a business trip. After the crackdown, not a crack
was to be seen, nor was there any "getting down" in downtown. Nor
midtown or uptown, for that matter.

There are no strip clubs worth going to.

That's what everyone says. That's what everyone knows.

Everyone is wrong.

If you know the right people, if you hang out in the right places
on-line, if you know the "secret word" or know someone who does,
old-time lapping action the likes of which haven't been seen since
the days of the Melody Burlesque near 42nd and Broadway can be found.
Not on any given night; just on some nights. Nights when some
enterprising dude gathers a small collection of dancers, a couple of
bouncers, and a real DJ in a one-off locations. Perhaps a private
club; perhaps a couple of hotel suites; maybe a private apartment.

Some time in the last 60 days I attended one of these events. I read
the promo in an online forum, called the phone number and got the
location. This thing is organized a little like a rave; location
subject to change until the day of the event. Printed the discount
coupon from the forum; oddly enough, one graphical element of said
coupon is the old A.S.S-C button image from five years ago.

Show up at the door with my coupon and the door charge, wearing my
lapping attire (thin track pants, no skivvies, matching baggy black
shirt). Get patted down real friendly-like by the door staff who are
making sure no weapons (or shields, probably) make it in the door.
Hit the bar, buy a beer, and get some change. Singles and fives.

Yep. Singles and fives. Dirt-cheap lapdance coupons. A couple of
singles will buy a minute or two of wall-dance grind; a fiver will
get five minutes. A ten-spot will get five or more minutes of
full-on grind seated on a cushioned and reasonably-comfortable
bench. No privacy at all, which means no blind laps; what you
see is what you get. The lack of privacy doesn't bring the heat
down on you if you grope a little (or a lot); there is no heat,
just the ladies setting their own limits.

So far, so good. Just like the Harmony of 1997.

Fact is, though, that the wall dancing and lapping is just a
tease. A come-on without the cumming. Dropping $50 on some
seriously kickin' babe with a fab DD rack (all original equipment,
firm and perky as hell) and seriously tasty booty is just not
done. Not when she whispers in your ear that extras are available
for the same price.

She's not using the word "extras". She's explicit. She'll
negotiate, up front, what she wants for what she gives. Conclude
the deal and follow her up a staircase (normally barricaded by
one of the bouncers), hand a sawbuck to the other dude at the
top of the stairs, and enter the Other Room. Be prepared to see
Naked People. Of both genders. Expect to see tab A inserted in
one or more of slots B, C, and D. No need to worry about stepping
on a beached whale; there's a large trash can reserved to corral
them. (Don't look in the can. Don't think about what's in the
can. Don't think about Elephants. Yeah, I failed at that one, too.)

Present your "consideration" to your selected service provider
as previously negotiated, find a place to perch, and go to it. No
bull; no trying to hide from the bouncers or other dancers or
other customers. The only bouncer who can see this room is
completely uninterested in what goes on there so long as no one
is injuring anyone else or making a scene. The only custormers
or dancers who can see the goings-on are a part of said goings-on;
unindicted co-conspirators, debauched or currently-debauching
witnesses to the debauchery of others.

The lack of privacy, the out-and-out visibility of all the
in-and-out, is a turn-on for some, a challenge to be surmounted
for others. Whatever it is for you, expect to have a difficult
time losing the image of some dude's pimply, hairy butt pumping
up and down over some cute-and-nasty piece of work who not
fifteen minutes previously was grinding her nicely cushioned,
t-back-wrapped rump against your clothed crotch downstairs during
a $3 wall dance. Or the black dude to the other side of you,
the one with the pipe half again as large as yours on your
best day, getting hoovered so hard his eyes are sinking into his
skull.

Frankly, I longed for the days of the dark and dingy Melody,
where the person sitting two seats away could've been engaged in
anal intercourse with a penguin and you'd be completely unaware
of it so long as some other cutie was rubbing her panty-clad butt
in your lap.

Or maybe I didn't.

Doesn't really matter. None of this actually happened. Couldn't
have happened. Not in Manhattan. Hell, the City That Doesn't
Sleep is completely clean of that pernicious badness called
lapdancing. And the other, worse, badness - sex-for-money.

Never occurred. The place doesn't exist. The date it didn't
happen doesn't even show up on your calendar. Hell, I wasn't
even in New York on the non-existent day when this didn't happen.