By Monica McGivern
By Travis Cohen
By Hannah Sentenac
By Daniel Reskin
By Hans Morgenstern
By George Martinez
By Pablo Chacon Alvarez
By Ciara LaVelle
The polecats here follow the three-songs-and-out formula but perform on elevated platforms just a few feet from patrons, providing a wormhole view of their charms.
Mary Anne, a Latin seductress with baked-bean nipples and buttery hips, left the crowd howling when she grabbed a spinning trapeze attached to the ceiling and whirled like a dervish.
Ceecee, a bubble-butt brunet boasting mouthwatering breasts and luxurious locks framing her fetching face, was by far the sauciest performer at any of the clubs. With dick-throbbing pirouettes and shameless eye contact, she left male onlookers slavering like idiots.
Bare Necessity, 9100 S Dixie Hwy, Miami; 305-670-2373.
Alley Cat, 3875 Shipping Ave, Miami; 305-446-8346.
Tucked in a strip of industrial warehouses on the outskirts of Coral Gables, the Alley Cat offers ladies who range from a handful of hotties to girls you just want to slip a buck to and pray they leave you alone.
This was the most couples-friendly of the three clubs, with several pairs enjoying the action. And plenty of well-heeled professional types were buzzing the bar.
Alley Cat offers valet parking, has a happy hour from 4:00 to 8:00 p.m. with discounted drinks, and also has a menu with burgers and salads in the $6 to $8 range. It's open until 5:00 in the morning most days.
The place is spacious and clean, with a large stage in the center of the room featuring a black curtained backdrop sprinkled with a constellation of glittering white and red lights and the club's name emblazoned in bright blue.
One of the dancers a University of Miami MBA student with a peaches-and-cream complexion and corn-fed curves asked patrons to stuff their tips between her breasts.
A Brazilian dancer, decked out in dominatrix gear, looked like Betty the Ugly turned swan. Sporting nerdy eyeglasses, a leather corset, and platform leather boots, she was sexy as hell.
The show stealer was Jacky "La Cubana." The guitar-shape stripper with silver-dollar-size areolas gyrated her culo onstage as if someone had wedged a Roman candle between her cheeks.
None of these clubs boasted acts one would confess to his priest about. And after a few drinks, a lap dance, or a visit to the VIP room, a pilgrim and his wallet will soon be parted. (ATMs conveniently located on premises should offer a clue.)
At Gold Rush, one of the tired dancers summed it up best. Armani, who began peeling at age seventeen in North Dakota and has come a long way from the badlands, sounded like a Wharton School of Business grad after descending from the stage. "We are having a very hard time making money," the single mother said. "The economy is in a downward spiral, and people are trying to stretch their incomes as far as they can. Who knows how long these types of clubs might last."