Dispatches From the House
I've been to more than my share of strip clubs. I know everyone rolls their eyes when I hark back to Portland, but my hometown is just packed with titty bars, and they're so much a part of the local scene that, well, it's common to pop into Union Jacks, or Mary's or Magic Garden for a night cap. Aside from Viva Las Vegas (Portland's most literate stripper) and few talented family friends, I would never really go for the strippers themselves. Decent looking white girls, often with tattoos, dancing a little on the low-key end.
This weekend, I paid a visit to my new neighborhood strip joint—The House, on Georgia Avenue—and basically had my mind blown.
The House is an ass palace. The talented dancers there would all qualify for centerfolds in BlackMen, Sweets, or any of the burgeoning number of mags dedicated to women whose measurements go something like this: 36-26-42. When you walk in, the booties are the first thing you notice. They're bobbing about everywhere. Counting on this mesmerizing effect, a well-placed employee jumps to direct you to the drink line. There's no cover, but you have to buy a drink. We bought a couple of my favorite dirty-old-man drinks—scotch and soda—and settled at a table on a little balcony with a view of all the stages. T.I.'s contender for song of the summer, "Big Shit Poppin", was playing, the first of many jiggle-inspiring numbers to play from the Dirty South.
Dancers at The House adhere to a simple method: When they take the stage, they spread out one of those Wal-Mart blankets printed with wolves or a jungle scene. Then they plop down on their backs, stick their asses in the air and shake. This is no ordinary turbo booty. Not just a little wiggle. It's like a spasmodic gyration of thighs and butts, bumping up and down and shaking from internal tremors.
Men don't just sit stageside and watch. They get up and stare straight into the depths of each rear. The women usually, eventually, get completely naked. So putting money in a G-string isn't really possible. Thus the blankets. At the end of their marathon performances, the dancers gather up their squares and trundle away with, from what I saw, several hundred dollars in ones, fives, and 20s.
The whole, raw thing caused a reaction described as "brain melting" in my male friend. I was mostly curious about the aerobic dynamics of performing such feats. And I left a little less sure of the quality of my own derriere.