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from www.sfweekly.com - The man standing outside the strip club looked like the type of fellow who would be standing outside a strip club. He was in a black shirt with the top three buttons undone, exposing a silver necklace tangled in a mat of chest hair. He wore gray zoot suit slacks that began at his belly button and crumpled beneath his heels. A black fedora, two sizes too small, topped his greasy black curls while black wrap-around shades covered his eyes.
As he jabbered on a cell phone, he eyed a queue of three men filing into the Penthouse Club -- the newest strip joint in San Francisco's North Beach neighborhood. These men each wore slim-fitting suits, and none had hair longer than a crew cut. Fedora Man would stay outside. He leaned against a wall and watched as the men shuffled past a black velvet rope and filed into the building, entering a gauntlet of handshakes.
There was the handshake with the guy holding a clipboard filled with names, then the handshake with the guy who opened the door, then the handshake with the woman who solicited coat checks, then the handshake with the woman who led patrons into a hallway where a gelled-haired man met them, offered a handshake and then led them to their respective tables.
The eager geniality shouldn't have come as a surprise to the men in the slim-fitting suits. This evening marked the Penthouse Club's grand opening, and the staff seemed determined to establish a memorable first impression.
Throughout the downstairs room, servers in black uniforms roamed, passing out bite-size appetizers and taking drink orders. Penthouse seemed to be going for a Vegas vibe, with $20-$100 lap dances, $300-$21,000 bottle service, $10 ATM fees, and cocktails named after porn stars (The Jenna Rose: 2 oz. Smirnoff Raspberry Vodka, citrus soda, cranberry juice, lemon twist, served over ice. $15.). Pink, purple, red, green, and blue lights flickered over leather chairs and glass tables.
Before the strippers took the stage, many of them worked the room, chatting with patrons. The girls donned pseudo-elegant dresses with a stripper twist, such as flowy gowns with slits that reached each hip, or necklines that dipped halfway to the navel.
One of them, a short brunette in a white-and-gold strapless top, took a seat beside a man in a gray blazer.
"So where you from?" she asked. He answered.
They exchanged small talk, the man noting the brightness of the lights, the girl noting that tonight would be her first performance. This went on for several minutes, before an extended silence took hold.
"So where are you from?" she asked.
Across the table from the pair, a lean redhead who said her name was Monica conversed with a man in a black button-down. She told him that she enjoyed photography and planned to enroll in college to study it further.
"So, uh, how, um, why did you start doing this?" he asked, his voice rising an octave in a seemingly sincere attempt to avoid sounding condescending.
"Why did I become a dancer?" she said. "I was bored. This is exciting. I feel like I can just go up there and do whatever. It's very liberating, as a woman."
"Oh, okay, cool," he said. "So how long have you worked here?"
"About two months."
Perhaps she moonlighted as a construction worker or commercial interior decorator, since this was Penthouse's opening night.
The two girls soon left the two men and headed to the backstage area. The men, sporting matching grins, scooted their chairs together.
"Man, that girl told me this is gonna be her first performance," said the man in the blazer. "Bullshit dude, I bet she says that every time. She's trying to play that innocent virginal girl."
The man in the button-down chuckled.
"I mean, I get it, it's all about fulfilling fantasies, escapism. It's not a date, it's just something to remember," continued blazer. "But just once I want a stripper to tell me, 'I've got three kids. It's hard times. Been doing this for 10 years. This is it. This is what I do.' That's hot. I would buy that. 'Cause you never hear that."
He paused.
"But even if she said that I probably wouldn't believe her anyway."
Dancers performed on three stages stationed around the club. There was a cage with neon pink and purple bars encircled by chairs, where several patrons ate hamburgers while staring up at the entertainment. There was a clear glass platform that jutted out from the second floor balcony area, offering a unique view to those standing on the walkway directly below it. The girls who danced on these stages kept their clothes on.
The clothes came off on the main stage, a wide, slick black clearance framed by glittering silver curtains. A 30-foot pole, the club's centerpiece, stretched all the way up past the balcony to the ceiling. The more skilled dancers would climb to the top of the pole, tease the patrons leaning over the railing, then slide down, sideways or upside down.
One particularly athletic stripper, a caramel-skinned girl with bleached hair that folded over the side of her head, reached the top of the pole using only her arms. She flipped herself upside down, gripping the pole with only her legs. She pulled herself back upright, released her grip, and slid down in a free fall, before snatching the pole inches before her butt would have smacked the ground. The capacity audience cheered. A man near the stage threw a bundle of bills into the air and they floated around her like confetti. A bearded guy in the front row who had been scrolling through his smart phone during many of the previous performances even chipped in a few bucks. Cash flew in from every direction.
When the dancer's set ended, a staffer holding a long flat mop raked the money into a pile and swept it into an adjacent hallway. The dancer's silhouette, crouched over scooping the bills into loose fists, was barely visible behind the lace drapes that led back stage.
