Joe Eaton recorded a remarkable account of the motives behind street harassment. One question I wish he had explored, though, is how to dismiss a harasser. Some women play along, some get angry, and some pay no attention, but what works best?

The most impressive dismissals I've seen were back in college. The storefronts across from the University of Texas were usually crowded with unemployed men, while the sidewalk was full of young female students. Drooling attention was dispensed by the bucket; most women just seemed to take it. But I dated one girl who didn't. Every time some ne'er-do-well pulled the kissy face, the catcall, or the whistle on her, she would shout, "Get a sex life!" Though she didn't cow them, she was loud enough to stun them.

Is yelling back the best way? How do you fend off the creeps?

From a Saturday post to the newhilleast discussion group:

Subject: [newhilleast] encounter with the driving onanist

This morning, my girlfriend was out for a run on East Capitol Street when a man in a white sedan---not an SUV, but a sedan---pulled over and asked her for directions. Yes, you guessed it---he was masturbating. African American, looking more than a little bit stoned. When she called 311, they told her he'd been spotted already once this morning, though over on North Capitol Street, doing the same thing.

Keep your eyes open, folks, and be careful when somebody asks you for directions.

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.

Here's a little something Ivy City residents who might have concerns about adult-themed clubs coming to their neighborhood should know: You already have one.

Club proprietor Bob Siegel isn't waiting to rebuild his adult-themed empire after his eviction from the stadium site. In order for Siegel to serve drinks and have live entertainment, he needs the council to pass legislation that would allow him to transfer the nude dancing license to the Ward 5 warehouse district. The city used eminent domain to chase Siegel and several other business owners out of their O Street SE digs near the new stadium.

For 10 bucks before 7 p.m., and $15 after that, patrons to his club at 2120 West Virginia Ave. NE are treated to a huge warehouse with all the accouterments Siegel once offered in Southeast. No alcohol is served.

After passing through pay station and being buzzed in, patrons can take a quick right past the sex toys into the "theatre," a large projection-screen TV in a small room that contains four large high-backed benches. At 1 p.m. today, only one patron was taking in the show.

Farther back in the sprawling complex is a black-light room and plenty of very dimly-lit side rooms. A patron or two hang close to the wall in the shadows. A sign in one of rooms reads: "Please dispose all paper towels, garments, and trash into the garbage bins."

In a better-lit area of the warehouse, a construction project was underway: Two workers were building a maze of eight-foot-high cubicles for the "glory hole" portion of the premises.

Siegel was on site, but he refused to speak about his burgeoning enterprise, sort of. "I'm not happy with the way your paper is playing this Harry Thomas thing up," said Siegel. His reference was to this week's Loose Lips column on the battle over legislation that would allow club owners displaced by the new ballpark a one-time relocation break.

Call them adult entertainment. Call them nude dancing clubs. Just, whatever you do, don't call them strip clubs.

"I am not a strip club," declared Nexus Gold Club owner Ron Hunt in an impassioned speech before Ward 5 residents at Bethesda Baptist Church last night. Hunt prefers the term "gentlemen's club" to describe Nexus, a glitzy nightclub that offered nude dancing until it was closed by the city last fall. Nexus was one of a series of clubs shuttered to make way for new stadium development.

In a lengthy oration that elicited intermittent boos from the audience, Hunt made grand claims, saying his club "was known as the largest on the East Coast," and that 80 percent of its patrons arrived via limousine. "This was for the upper-echelon people," he said, adding, "This club looked like a living room. We cater[ed] to husbands and wives."

But the neighbors who packed the pews at Bethesda last night wouldn't hear it. "If these clubs are so wonderful, why don't they put some kind of subsidy to put them by the [new] stadium," one resident said.

Others suggested the clubs should be evenly distributed throughout the wards, or perhaps clustered in Ward 1. Ward 1 Councilmember Jim Graham has introduced legislation designed to permit one-time relocation of the clubs to similarly zoned locations---all of which are in Ward 5. "The issue before us is a simple issue. It's a zoning issue," said Ward 5 Councilmember Harry Thomas Jr., who convened the meeting. "No ward wants to be inundated with one type of business."

According to a press release received by City Desk this morning, the Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation Institute of Washington D.C. is now open. About goddamn time!

Perhaps you might remember the clinic, and its proprietor, Dr. Christopher A. Warner, from a piece in the Post Health section a couple of months back. Perhaps not.

The LVRI's signature service, according to its Web site, is "Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation® (LVR®)," which "enhances vaginal muscle tone, strength, and control. It decreases internal and external vaginal diameters, and builds up and strengthens the perineal body (the area immediately outside the vagina and above the anus), all of which greatly promotes female, sexual gratification."

Why, pray tell, might someone be interested in laser vaginal rejuvenation? Well:

According to Dr. Warner, a relaxed vagina can be likened to that of a balloon. Blow the balloon up and immediately release the air. The balloon does not retain its original shape or form. The same is true of the vagina. In time, it becomes loose and weak.

And you wouldn't want that to happen to your balloon/vajayjay. Full press release after the jump.

Image: "Red Canna," Georgia O'Keeffe, 1923

Read More "Finally—D.C. Gets “Vaginal Rejuvenation” Services" »

"That must come with a ball tickler." That's what my older brother used to quip when confronted with an inordinately expensive commodity. In the case of Deborah Jeane Palfrey's $300-an-hour escorts, the answer to that question seems likely to have been, yes, if that's what turned you on. On Thursday, a judge ruled the "D.C. Madam" could not pass on to reporters any more phone records that might identify the men who contracted the services of her workers.

But what's more interesting than the names of the big spenders are the women who worked for Palfrey, the $300-an-hour club. I've never paid for sex (only because I didn't know where to find it when I was 15), but in the marketplace, I assume $300 gets you the Ferrari, or at least the Corvette. But the questions remain: What does a $300-an-hour prostitute look like? What do you get for the money? Is there a charge by the minute?

I recently talked my way into the foyer of a private gay social club (they describe themselves as J/O enthusiasts) near Dupont Circle. Don't worry, I'm not going to spoil the fun by disclosing the location---I'm here to talk about interior design.

The place is pretty skanky on the outside; police say a man was recently arrested for masturbating in front of the windows. But inside, they're on the cutting edge of modern decor. The New York Times recently published a Style story on the outdoorsy-turn in the decorative arts. Tracking the trend, the club has an antlered deer head mounted on the wall. The rest of the room is appointed in reds and blacks, with a full wall of lockers, a black reception desk with a bowl full of Hershey's Kisses, and a red curtain they wouldn't let me past. A little dry-erase sign read "Buck Naked Wild Mondays."