The Saga of Sassy and Sour: A Foray into Portland's Nude Women

"Can I get a vodka with lemon juice?"
"We don't have lemon juice."
"Oh. Do you have lemons?"
"No. We've got limes." They also had strippers. And a great jukebox. Unfortunately, as Edith would say about vodka and lime juice, those two were a strange combination.

"While you're in Portland, we need to take you to a strip club," Harley insisted. Harley is a childhood friend of Edith's and, along with her boyfriend, our extremely gracious host in the City of Roses. She explained that strip clubs were as numerous there as churches in the south. My cursory glance proved her correct. The great thing about Portland strip clubs, however, is that they are completely lacking in cover charges. This coupled with the cheap drink prices make them an appealing option for a night on the town.

"I'd like to go, I've never been to a strip club that had women dancing," Edith said. And added her disclaimer, "As long as I don't have to get a lap dance."

"She didn't have the best experience at the male strip club," I offered as an explanation to Harley. It was true. Months ago, Jonathan Joseph and I took Edith, her boyfriend, and the transtacular Kimberly to Swinging Richards. It wasn't the first time Edith had been to Atlanta's cleverly named gay strip club but it was to become her last. On previous visits, she picked up on the not-so-subtle anti-biological woman vibe. On this visit, she experienced a scarring event that I inadvertently set into motion.

The dancers at Swinging Richards are a relatively diverse set -- relative for a bunch of waxed, toned strippers, anyway. But one thing they have in common is abhorrent dancing skills. Some don't even try, they just sway back and forth and make Male Stripper Face. This is a face made by all men who take off their clothes for money. I can't tell if it's a biological instinct or a stated part of the job description, but it's all pursed lips and vacant eyes. The pretense of fantasy. Every now and then at Richards, you'll come across a dancer who truly enjoys his job or, at least, likes to show off his moves. That night we saw one of these elusive orchids. He was on stage acting like Dr. Moreau's hybrid of Nadia Comaneci and Napoleon Dynamite. It was intriguing.

Edith wanted to tip Nadia Dynamite a few dollars for his troubles but was far too shy to be face-to-face with a stripper herself. I agreed to do it if she gave me the money. So up I went and as I slipped the dollar bills into his arm band I asked Nads for a small favor. "You see that girl at my table? Can you please look directly at her and wink? Thanks." There would be little else as cheesy and awkward as a wink, I thought. But alas, my inspired plan was not to come to fruition. He finished dancing and left the stage without so much as a blink. "Meh," I thought as the conversation moved on to other spectacles.

When suddenly! and without warning! Edith's chair went spinning around. But before I could call the Ghost Hunters, I saw Nads mount Edith and begin grinding. Apparently, "please wink at her" translates to "please flap your penis in her face" in Stripperese. And flap he did! And gyrate, and bend, and twist, and shout, and hang upside down from the ceiling. Halfway through this feat of athleticism, I realized this would cost money... that I didn't have. Luckily, between the non-mushroom bruised people at the table, we were able to afford this gymnastic sadist's fee.

Edith shuddered as we relayed all this to the highly amused Harley. After we assured her that a lap dance would not happen, we found ourselves on the way to what Harley warned us was a strange and wonderful place, aptly named Magic Gardens.

"No. We've got limes," Patty offered.
"Just get me a vodka cranberry," Edith asked, defeated. This was the third bar in Portland that night not to have lemon juice but the first not to even have lemons. It seemed the city had traded citrus for strippers.

Patty shrugged and began mixing. I would have loved to sit Patty down and hear all the stories she had to tell. There she was at least 70 years old, wonderfully disinterested in you, pouring your drink while ladies took off their clothes around her. I also took note of how she made these drinks as I'd never seen a soda gun used for liquor before. I'm not even sure how that works. Are there regular bottles attached? That seems like a bitch to change out every 5 minutes. Are there special bags of liquor concentrate you can buy like the soda syrups? I had to know!

But, sadly, I couldn't marvel at Patty for very long. Mostly because she clearly wanted nothing to do with us, so we moved on to a table. In addition to Patty, and the large Samoan bouncer whose picture is in the dictionary next to "man who can clearly bounce your ass off pavement," Harley had mentioned the music as part of the strange wonderfulness of Magic Gardens. It was all eminating for a jukebox with a great selection of songs. Well, great selection in my opinion. But despite you and I's varied musical taste, I think we can both agree that it's odd to watch strippers dance to the following numbers:
The Cure - Close to Me
Feist - 1,2,3,4
Lesley Gore - You Don't Own Me (I will admit to the appropriateness of this one.)
Some mid-tempo Top 40 hit from The Fray or their ilk whining about feelings
(and my personal favorite) Billy Joel - Uptown Girl

To give these ladies their props, they handled the music very well. Even when they were Windexing down the stage from the previous dancer, it was like they were fulfilling some deep seeded Cinderella fantasy. Edith was amazed at how much better women are at stripping than men. Harley's boyfriend attributes it, in part, to women's ability to remove their clothing without the Male Stripper Face affliction. I try not to look at female strippers' faces because I feel bad when they make eye contact and I continue to not tip. Everytime I'm at a straight strip bar I feel like I need to wear a tiara emblazoned with the words "I Orgasm For Dick" just to make the message clear. Not that they care. A non-tipping asshole is a non-tipping asshole.

So having seen Grammy nominated 1,2,3,4 used as an alluring prelude to the actual tippers night o' masturbation, Harley then dazzled us with talk of the best strip club in town. And off we went to Sassy. Yes, that's right: Sassy. Though perhaps Post Apocolyptic Dystopian Future would be a more accurate name. Guarding the gate into Mad Max's Inferno is a less gay, more angry Wez from The Road Warrior. When Wez questioned my Georgia ID, I simply stood by patiently and occupied my eyes with his skull tattoos so as to avoid staring at the largest of several knives hanging from his belt.

As Magic Gardens' niche was tainting my childhood memories of Billy Joel with taint, Sassy's was punk rock angry-hot chicks. The guys that do make it past Wez and his Kevlar vest are clearly looking for a woman that considers slapping you to be foreplay. But shhh... don't tell their sorority girlfriends that's what they are into. It was packed with frat boys in polo shirts (and one in a Hawaiian shirt) with some seriously repressed kinkiness. One of the popular ladies didn't even dance. She just worked out on stage. Ever see a naked woman hang upside down from a vertical pole by just her legs and proceed to do sit ups? I have. And I've seen Sigma Phi Epsilons love it. The SigEps were even throwing one of their ambassadors a bachelor party the night we went.

Poor Jorge. Or poor George -- he was referred to as both so I couldn't tell. But whatever his name was, I'm sure he's legally changed it by now out of sheer embarrasement. When the DJ announced Jorge was getting married, his friends erupted in hoots and hollers while he sank so low in his chair that I was afraid he'd hit an iceberg. After an absurd amount of cajoling (during which Harley's boyfriend brilliantly yelled out, "She'll never forgive you!") the DJ was forced to remind him over the microphone that his friends are not getting their money back no matter what so Jorge was finally led up to the stage. Apparently, the Bachelor Light Special at Sassy involves seating the betrothed in the center of the stage while dancers descend onto him in a frenzy not unlike feral cats in heat. Jorge was sitting on his hands not moving a muscle. The terror in his eyes was mounting with each passing note of Billy Idol's White Wedding. When the girls busted out the dildo and fucked his belly button, I swear Jorge was going to cry. His wildest fantasies were being fulfilled... nightmarishly in public.

The girl who produced the dildo was Malice. In addition to having one of the greatest stage names, she was Harley's favorite stripper and the reason we came. It was pretty clear why. Like Nads Dynamite, Malice enjoyed what she did. Unlike Nads Dynamite, Malice was good at what she did. Her moves weren't cheesy and ridiculous, they were sexy. She was a striking, thin woman that when including her bleach blonde fluffy mohawk was about 7'8". Bitch had stage presence. Harley forced Edith to go up to the stage and tip. Edith's brave little step was rewarded with a face full of mohawk, Malice's signature move, it seemed. According to my sources, the mohawk smells lovely and floral. Which I must say is polite if you insist on rubbing people's faces with it via back bends.

Not polite, however, is the asshole who designed the men's rooms. For comparison, I take you once again to Swinging Richards. Walk into that men's room and you'll notice one thing first: the mirrors. All along the walls surrounding the urinals are mirrors. So at any angle at any point in the oddly shaped restroom you are able to see everyone else taking a leak. I think it's designed to foster a sense of community. For a more private bathroom experience, they offer stalls. As a sidenote, if you are ever in there then I recommend using the slightly hidden sink as the big one is often manned by one of those godforsaken washroom attendants. "Oh my! Is that how the faucet works? Thank you, my savior! Here, please take my money for doing an overly simple task I was going to do myself before you heroically swept in uninvited and did it for me." Though as a sidenote to the sidenote, a friend of mine was once one of those dreaded people at Richards and apparently there is good money in it.

In keeping with the post apocolyptic vibe, Sassy does not offer anything as upscale as washroom attendants. They don't even offer as much privacy as the mirrored place where horny gay men go to unzip their pants and hold their dicks in their hands. The men at Sassy, who are there for the naked ladies, walk into an open room whose ambience suggests that of a crack den and stand all in a row urinating into a trough. The last time I peed into a trough? Excellent question. If, however, your bathroom itinerary contains more than simple lizard draining then allow me to direct you to the single toilet. You'll find it in the stall, but don't worry because it's not that hard to spot... since the stall, like the bathroom, has no door on it.

All of this was going to require liquor.
"Do you guys have lemon juice?" Edith inquired.
"Sorry, no," the bartender replied. "I've got sour mix."
"Fine."
And so Edith drank her vodka sour. Garnished with a lemon wedge.