By Rebecca Bulnes
By Laurie Charles
By Chuck Strouse
By Lee Zimmerman
By Laurie Charles
By Falyn Freyman
By Hans Morgenstern
Most intelligent men have resigned themselves to the reality that they won't find their next wife in clubland. The probability is slim to none. Going to Spin, Rain, Jump, Skip, Hop or any other monosyllabic nightclub won't yield anything at the end of the evening except an expensive bar tab and a pocketful of napkins with disconnected (and sometimes false) cell-phone numbers. The nightclub-savvy ladies shaking their rumps and vacuuming your wallets aren't as a rule looking for Mr. Right. Mr. Right Now, on the other hand, may fill the bill. He can buy a drink for her and her friends. Women tend to travel in packs these days, similar to the way wolves do. Hey, it's just an observation.
What then are the options left for men in search of someone special? There is the Real Doll, but that brings about a whole other set of issues and moral debates. Let's move on.
Maybe lowering the standards and realizing there are no special women in Miami waiting to be swept off their feet is the reality. Women tend to be too busy watching Will & Graceor Sex and the Citythese days. Besides, how are men supposed to measure up to the surveys in Vogueand Mademoiselle? Mr. Big from that goofy woman's couch-potato show can have 'em all. For the most part the city is a cultural black hole; there isn't much available in the dating pool except snakeheads (just kidding). Anyway, no intellectually-stimulating-conversations-cum-hot-ass-Sigourney-Weavers-with-buzz-cuts out there.... Women know it. About time men did, too.
Of course if you are interested in living the lie and holding on to false hope, there's always a trip to the local market. BIG myth -- women at Publix are already shopping for their family's or fiance's dinner, so unless things are really lousy at home.... So that leaves the local Laundromat. Pass -- more than likely she's separating the colors from the whites so that little Billy's baseball jersey grass stains can get bleached out without ruining Suzie's Britney shirt. Zero erotic stuff, right? So? A friend's dinner party? Nope. Where's the fun in going to a gig filled with bitter women so smart they think they know what you want even before you say anything: "He's a player." "He's not serious about a relationship." "He's not ready to settle down and listen to me cackle for the rest of his miserable life." "He just wants sex." You could tape these raps and never go out again.
So what's left for the single man who doesn't want to waste time with money-munching UM twentysomethings who are just figuring themselves out and finding it really fascinating? How much faith can a guy have in a dating pool filled with women who can't pay their light bills on time? What treasures await Sunday-afternoon armchair quarterbacks in Miami, looking for um, quality booty?
Treasures? You want treasures? Well, try these on for size: Black Gold, Solid Gold, Gold Finger, Miami Gold, Pure Platinum, Gold Rush, Vegas Cabaret, Treasure Island ...
The days of adult entertainment being taboo and for creepy old men and frat guys are long gone. Clubbed has taken on the arduous and painstaking task of comparing the club/bar scene with the heretofore despised strip-club circuit. And we know what you're thinking, but listen a minute.
For starters, you don't have to worry about taking your buddies with you and feeling like a "bad friend" if they don't hook up and you do. In strip bars it's like Mogadishu -- every man for himself ...
The average cost of admission at a gentlemen's club -- we prefer the name titty bar -- is about ten dollars. No matter what holidays, what porn stars are dancing, or whether Mercury is in retrograde, that price is gonna hold. That beats the hell out of the $15 to $30 you pay to hear a DJ play songs you don't know or like anyway. Speaking of DJs, the wacky-voiced guy repeating "C'mon guys, let's hear it for 'Ass Claps Along To The Song' -- she's up there shaking it for your dollars!" tends to be more valid than DJ Sweat or whoever screaming about Brooklyn being in the house -- who wants Brooklyn, anyway?
Then there's the velvet rope issue. Resolved: Strip clubs have no wait. There is no long line, or guest list. The general idea is to get your ass seated as fast as possible so you can start drinking and chunking $10s at the women. Holding your money too long is counterproductive, not to say un-American. Everyone is a potential VIP -- you don't have to be with Diddy. If some round-assed girl burns the cash through your wallet in less than half an hour, she's workin' and you jerkin', you know what I'm saying? She has done her job.
And drinks? A true gentlemen's club connoisseur knows he only needs to buy for himself. VIP is of no concern to those pimpin' on a budget. Generally, you don't needa private table. Flossing and spending your paycheck at a place like this won't really impress anyone, and it sure as hell won't land you on the cover of Ego Trip or Ocean Drive magazines. You can forget most of the BS.