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The Pole Position: Is Stripping For You? (And How to Stay Healthy Doing It)
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About Sheila Hageman. Sheila Hageman. Books by Sheila Hageman. Unlike the city's other strip clubs, the main event here is a peep show that you watch from behind glass in a booth the size of a broom closet—for a mere dollar per minute. True, the booth smells of disinfectant hey, it's better than the alternative , but the dancers cut the inherently lowbrow atmosphere with a playful dose of sex-positive feminism.
I actually like the peep show, though the Lusty Lady clientele certainly rates higher on the lurking perv meter than the fresh-faced crowd dropping hundos over at Hustler. Sporting my trench coat—it was raining earlier, I swear—I find it hard to shake the feeling that I could easily become one of them.
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Be sure to dodge the wads of used Kleenex littering the floor of some booths—and for Bettie Page's sake, lock the door behind you. Once inside, I get the fullest of monties from a variety of quite attractive ladies. And I should emphasize the word variety. Should your tastes run toward the milquetoast strip-club beauty slender, blonde, plastic, and cooing , the decidedly burlesque Lusty Ladies might not be for you. But if you stand at attention for healthy curves, the odd piercing, and natural knockers of every sort, you'll find plenty to like down at the peep show.
The theater, started by Jim and Artie Mitchell, has been at the vanguard of erotic entertainment since From their seminal porn flick Behind the Green Door starring their dancer Marilyn Chambers to public battles with Mayor Dianne Feinstein in the '80s to Artie's murder at the hands of his brother , this is ground zero for SF skin. As I settle into a seat in the second row in front of the main stage, it's obvious why.
by Sheila Hageman
These dancers are by far the most enthusiastic, engaged, and preposterously hot of any I've seen yet. The club has an old-timey vibe with all manner of unused side stages and a Wild West brothel set along one wall.
The tiny snack bar—no booze here, only Snickers—could be straight off a Little League field. The crowd of watchers varies.
One middle-aged guy appears to be listening to a Walkman; another plays the part of the grinning baller. After taking in a handful of top-drawer, fully nude dances, I'm accosted by a pair of lithe, blond beauties who inform me that we are about to play.
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But negotiating with them is hardly play at all. The price for a lap dance is a moving target.
Not a minute in, they commence imploring me for private rooms and trips to the ATM. When I decline any more than we've arranged, the pair grow distracted. The dance ends quickly; neither is nude.
I leave promptly, an unhappy victim of tandem topless gouge. A fitting end I suppose, considering the club's hardcore reputation. The following night around 10 p. Cruising down the sloping floor of the former movie house, my buddy and I settle into a pair of theater seats alongside the main stage's runway among a large crowd. My pal is promptly chatted up by Tracy, whose lacy black bodysuit and moody, sultry mien is more lost noir heroine than stripper.
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That appeal solidifies when she takes it all off to the woozy sounds of Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen. Noting a rare couple seated next to us, I turn to chat them up. They're in town for a week from Orlando and spent the previous night at the Crazy Horse too.
Her favorite dancer is Mya—a feisty raven-haired beauty with an enhanced bustline—but I make my play for Skye, a pretty blonde in an elaborate black thong and a salmon-colored cardigan. Eager to help me with my research, Skye gives me the best lap dance of my tour. The full-contact, fully nude dance is flirty and fun, making what can be a truly strange experience I'm still not totally sure why men pay for lap dances into light, sexy play. I must confess that the cardigan—and OK, what's beneath it—kind of does it for me. The slab of meat is enormous, and the buttery potatoes and mixed vegetables are easy enough going down with a glass of Fat Tire.
The patrons at the low-lit club are middle-agers who look like they're in town on business. Perhaps the club's most memorable aspect is its host, Frankie, a first-rate gentleman who's attentive to his customers, ably fielding questions, and even recommending Leena—a sunny brunette with fearsomely large breasts—as my best bet for a lap dance.
After a leisurely dinner, my buddy and I move up to the front row to spend the last of my expense account.
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Some dancers pay us nice attention as we slip singles beneath bra straps and into garters. Others are oddly uninspired, though I can't tell why, as we're the only guys seated at the stage and handing out money. I spend the last of my cash in tips, and we head for the door. In retrospect, it might have been me who was uninspired that final night of the tour. After three clubs in as many nights, I'd begun to weary of the routine: the nagging feeling I wasn't spending enough money, and the clear fact that even deep pockets would net only a relatively shallow experience.