Writings from Truckin'


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Thursday, November 26, 2009

Don't wear white at a strip club

"Hello, Papi," the girl from Colombia said as she thrust her pelvis into me. From 0 to 2 seconds was all it took. An instant turn-on.

I didn't leave her side until 20 dances later.

The ride to Cheetah's came courtesy of their free shuttle bus stuffed with 10 people. You can call the club and arrange free pickup, which conveniently also comps each passenger his entry fee. This is especially appreciated by me, who no longer possesses a free stripper card (a.k.a. Nevada driver's license that gets locals into any Vegas strip club for free). You can also get any cabbie to take you to any club for free, as they get kickbacks per person brought to the club (when stepping into the cab, say "Can you take us to XXX for free?" and step out if they say no). But while your cab fare is free, you may still be obligated to pay the admission fee anywhere from $10 to $30.

Cheetah's is my favorite gentlemen's club in Las Vegas (Spearmint Rhino is my favorite when doing The Procedure with Pauly and BadBlood). Girls at Cheetah's don't seem especially in a hurry (though for girls in even less of a hurry and maybe lacking ambition, check out Seamless). They won't be the girl next door type (Little Darlings) or the ballroom gown type (Scores/Rick's) but they're more down to earth and fun than any other club I've been to. And heck, it was featured in the movie Showgirls. Even after some stripper stole my rental car keys on July 4th, I still go back.

I have Cheetah's numbers programmed into my iPhone -- (702) 384-0074 and the shuttle driver at (702) 427-9996. If you have a group of at least 5, they're happy to pick up your group for a private ride. If less, they'll pick you up and then make other stops to fill the shuttle.

Last time I rode the Cheetah's bus, I had just ordered nachos and potato skins when they arrived earlier than expected. Eating them in the stripper mobile is a bit uncouth, made more so when I jokingly offered it to the driver as a tip.

One of our group hit two royals that day and as soon as each of our group had girls on our laps, he splurged for the first round of dances. He blew through all of one of the royal money that night.

The girl who called me Papi also called me by my real name. She remembered the last time I was there, when I went into the back room with her (one of many times over the past 3 years). I normally give a fake name (Steve, now Von) and fake profession (inflate tires on UPS trucks, tour with Cirque du Soleil, produce adult films) but somehow I was truthful with her.

Before I could grab a seat or drink with my friends, she led me to a dark but comfortable corner.

There are some girls where you appreciate the flirty conversation beforehand, there are others where you just want them to get down to business.

She was in the latter.

And she wasn't initially attractive either. She isn't the type to be given double-takes. The first time she approached me a few years ago, I said no. Calling people "papi" isn't the best bedroom talk. But boy does she make up for it.

Immediately picking up where she left off on my last visit (where the bouncer kept coming in saying that I couldn't do what I was doing), on the third song she unzipped my pants, gently shoved her hand down, and began taking liberties I didn't mind her taking. Her scraggly hair covered what she was doing, and her eyes darted around making sure no one was watching.

A true professional.

A friend who spent a couple thousand dollars in the G Spot private room said that was more than he got.

I made a mental note to next time wear dark underwear, because the white stands out in the blacklight lighting of the club.

Song 20 seemed a good a time to end as any, not to mention I was out of money (and seemingly also out a pants button).

She was off to Colombia for Thanksgiving but I promised I'd be back before then. Which I would have, had I not later lost all my strip club money on slot machines.

I did make a trip to the ATM which charged a $15 fee (the gougement is usually in the $25 range) and had two dances with a persistent Thai girl.

We talked green curry and other Thai dishes, and she was into making out (the Colombian girl wasn't). But when nibbling on her ear, she pulled away, slapped me, punched my crotch hard, then bit me on the cheek. And then said we were even.

I did it again just to get the same reaction.

Had a few other dances with other girls, but none compared to the Colombian, who later joined me and said that someone just had 12 dances with her and I still held the record. She needed a few more to make her nut for the evening, and I pointed her toward a couple prospects.

About 3 a.m., we abandoned a few of our men and took the shuttle bus back to the hotel for breakfast.

While eating, one said that he was off to Club Paradise and would text if it was good.

Which he did, and additionally said that there was no cover.

When a friend and I arrived, the place was completely empty except for a cocktail waitress. I've never cared for Club Paradise but thought it may have changed since Howard Stern started taking his radio show there (back in the terrestrial days).

I texted asking where he was, and out he came like Hugh Hefner, in his t-shirt and a girl from every nationality draped around him.

We joined him in his private room that contained a bar, and he left us with three girls as he took the best-looking one to an hourlong dance.

We sat over $14 drinks and girls who were a little worse for wear originally from Chicago.

My girl, Darien, claimed to be an ex-pornstar who was on the cover of Cherry magazine probably from the late '80s. Her body looked good but her face looked like it had danced with a truck. She had meth-looking crumbling teeth and a scrunched face. And this was in the dark.

I took out the last of my money -- three $20 bills.

"What can I get for this?" I said.

Darien took the money, folded it neatly into her purse, and said she'd give me a deal, which amounted to two dances that reminded me more of the typical dances from Chicago -- little contact.

In Darien's case, it was coupled by a kiss that tasted like cigarettes, Hennessy, and pineapple juice, and skin that felt like rubber bands. And porn talk in my ear that really has no place anywhere but in the actual bedroom.

I couldn't get into her as much as I tried, and was thankful when it was over. I figured the part when it ended was the deal.

We high-tailed it out of the club, leaving our one friend to fend for himself in his remaining 30-minute dance in the back corner.

Later we texted him, "Thanks for the scraps."