Sex
Come and go
What may be the world's first drive-through strip club is bringing convenience to the flesh consumer.
Her white lace nightgown is down and her panties are off before I can even remember to put the car in park.
Maybe she’s called Bunny — she has a pale spot in the shape of the Playboy logo just above her tan line — but I’ll never know her name unless she holds up a sign. She’s dancing behind glass so thick she couldn’t hear me if I shouted.
This strip joint with a drive-through lane — billed as the only one in the world — is a frontier experiment in arousal stuck in a Pennsylvania backwater. The Climax Red Top — one of the three low, blocky buildings that form the Climax Gentleman’s Club just 30 miles east of Pittsburgh — sits next to a defunct taxidermist/Baptist church combo. But it’s one of the best expressions of American consumerism ever conceived. If Wal-Mart were to enter the skin trade in the year 2100 or so this would be what it looked like.
Ralph the burly bouncer is behind glass too, at a bank teller’s window with a sliding drawer. He shoots an index finger at the sign taped to the Lexan pane: $5 a minute, it says. No filming. If your car stalls in front of the viewing window, it’s still $5 a minute.
I’ve only got a $10 and a $20. I put them in the drawer and shout “Five minutes,” but Ralph is unmoved. He shoots another finger up the gravel driveway at a small wooden awning and disappears.
Six minutes, then. So the system isn’t perfect yet.
I pull farther up and stop beside a diamond-shaped window with a dark olive curtain. It is hastily drawn aside.
I can feel the heat in my face as Bunny appears and is quickly naked. (In Pennsylvania strippers can be nude only in places that don’t serve alcohol.) I’m not a habitué of drive-throughs or strip joints, but I can tell Bunny has McDonald’s beat for efficiency and the “classy” strip clubs in the city topped for cost-effectiveness.
She is a long-haired brunet with pink lipstick and outrageously high silver platforms — fuck-anybody shoes. Her figure is a bit of bravura. Sitting several feet below Bunny’s stage in my Taurus, I can see slight pink scars under each breast. I also notice her wedding band. I try to imagine her life and her decisions: I shall have surgery; I shall get married; I shall dance naked for strangers. I wonder what order they came in, but not for long.
She licks a finger and touches herself when she sees my eyes stray toward the right spot. She presses her breasts to the glass, then turns around to bend over against it. She has just a few moves — fewer even than the women who, until recently, wiggled behind David Letterman every night. But what the hell is she moving to?
In the silence of my car, Bunny’s sole soundtrack is the rush of the trucks on the highway. The only thing odder than the glass that separates us is this silence.
I turn up the radio. Unfortunately, my six minutes straddle 4 p.m. on a weekday, and I’ve got the radio tuned to an NPR station. Robert Siegel — or is it Noah Adams? — is suddenly announcing that a Palestinian mob has been tossing Israeli soldiers out of windows. A definite mood breaker. I punch in the tape sticking out of the player. A very young Paul Simon — or is Art Garfunkel? — begins a lamentation about Bleecker Street.
There is nothing to do but stare at Bunny in silence.
Alone in my vehicle, I have often stared at strangers this shamelessly. Here in my car, with this stranger behind her own thick glass, I find I can stare at her too. The see-through wall takes away all of the embarrassment. She is just as untouchable as the strippers inside the club, but she is also literally unreachable. It’s the perfect distance for privacy.
Before long she is staring at me too, just as shamelessly. Her face had been a refuge, a visual break in the action, but now she is no longer even smiling. She has gone from sultry to desultory in seconds. Now I have nowhere neutral to look.
I’ve only been to a strip club once before; it was someone else’s idea. I’d always imagined being wildly aroused by the sight of so much comely flesh, but once I got there I figured I must be dead. I sat, stage-side, as woman after woman came out, some barely dancing, others playing naked Twister. I examined my inner Clinton for interest. Nothing. Instead I began wondering where the snacks were. I put a napkin on my lap; it stayed there. And then I realized: The whole thing was just too public to be sexy.
In fact, everyone was laughing. The women were giggling at one another and at the announcer’s feeble attempt to whip up applause. The men were even laughing during private table dances.
When the table next door got its own show, the face of one dancer hovered inches in front of mine.
“Hi,” she said, smiling awkwardly.
“Hi,” I replied, grinning painfully back.
We might as well have bumped into each other on a city bus.
Now at the drive-through, I realize it is Bunny’s smile, as much as her naked body, that made me blush at first sight. The smile is the sexiest and most private part — the secret to this whole drive-through operation — because it’s personal. When she stopped smiling the private moment went away.
Inside the Climax, owner Nick Fratangelo — suited and soft-spoken — reluctantly takes me up onstage to see the show from the dancers’ perspective. Bunny is already busy entertaining a client nearby. At the apex of the diamond window, just out of sight of the idling cars, is a pager that signals when each stint is up. From the stage, the gravel driveway, the wooden canopy and, I imagine, the men in cars must seem as distant as a street seen from the tallest building.
I figure Fratangelo will plug his drive-through idea as revolutionary, but he couldn’t be more blasé. He says he hit on the notion at a company meeting. “This came out of one of the brainstorming sessions on new business,” he explains — the first time in history that Robert’s Rules of Order helped bring customer service to the soft-porn industry. “We have one more feature to offer the public as they’re driving by,” he adds.
Fine. But driving by in a 2-foot-high Taurus was apparently my first mistake. “If you’re in an SUV or a truck you’re about perfect,” says a bouncer colleague of Ralph’s who doesn’t want to give even his first name. Call him Larry. Larry and Ralph greet more of the drive-through clients than do any of the strippers, of course. Larry says he has seen as many as 12 in a limousine come through at once. So it’s $5 a minute per carload, I discover. Driving through alone was yet another rookie mistake.
Cookie, a 35-year-old Climax dancer, performs half a dozen drive-through shows each shift — just a small portion of the hundreds of shows club workers claim are requested during Climax’s 12-hour days. She sits knock-kneed beside the club’s W-shaped main stage in an all-black version of Bunny’s costume. She’s a thesis shy of a master’s degree in sociology — “with a specialty in deviance,” she adds, enjoying the irony — but works here for the usual reasons: kids and money.
“More come to the window than come in,” Cookie says of her customers now. “We see business guys, especially in the afternoon. Lots of salesmen.”
But do the men ever use their cars as private viewing booths? Cookie looks away, grins and frowns, grins and frowns again. She doesn’t need to answer that one.
“Some of them are smiling, laughing, giggling and pointing, gesturing for you to do things,” she says. Some even hold up signs with instructions. “Sometimes there’s women in the car,” Cookie adds, miming open hands shielding eyes, faces turning away.
Mostly, Cookie says, drive-through patrons come for the obvious reason — privacy. And Cookie likes it better that way. “You don’t have to talk to anybody,” she laughs. “You don’t have to socialize or be pleasant.”
Of course, there are drawbacks. Cookie calls the $2 a minute she clears from drive-throughs “a good deal,” but any tips would just bounce off the glass. Larry says the club is thinking of putting a sliding drawer in the dancers’ window, too.
But it’s already tough giving carbound patrons their money’s worth. “If it’s over four minutes,” Cookie says, “it’s too long. You just run out of things to do.”
Maybe a single minute would have been enough for me. I am an American consumer, after all. And here was naked flesh as only Americans can produce it: safe, well-lit, clean and utterly expedient. Not only was it anonymous, it was deaf and dumb. The perfect deal.
As I’m leaving the club, Cookie already has her knees wrapped around the ears of an older man seated at the edge of a table. I’d seen her greet him, offer her name and laugh at something he said — even bend down to shake his hand. I could see between her legs now as I passed, but I didn’t want to. I mean, I wanted to, but somehow it seemed too — impersonal. Time to get back to my car.
Marty Levine is a writer in Pittsburgh. More Marty Levine.
Massage therapists rubbed wrong by sex talk
A Jennifer Love Hewitt show and the Travolta allegations have masseuses tired of being confused for sex workers
(Credit: iStockphoto/sybanto) Joe, a licensed massage therapist, knows what it’s like having a famous client who expects something extra. He had an Academy Award-winning actor begin gyrating on his massage table before raising his hips in the air to show off his erection. “He was hoping that I would play with him in some shape or form,” he says.
Needless to say, Joe isn’t surprised by allegations by two masseurs that John Travolta got handsy during massages. (Travolta’s attorney has denied all the allegations, and called them “ridiculous.”) “It happens all the time,” he says, and not just with celebrity clients. He frequently encounters men who try to fondle him, usually while he’s working on their glutes or lower back and their hand happens to be level with his crotch. “They think they’re so original, but they’re all so much the same,” Joe says, his voice rising. “They all use the same tactics, the same body movements, the same gyrations and grinding my table, the [heavy] breathing.”
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
A night at the vibrator museum
Early vibrators were hand-cranked, two-person jobs -- and prescribed by doctors. How far we've come since then
(Credit: Antique Vibrator Museum) I can now say that I’ve used a turn-of-the-century vibrator — on my hand, but still.
The silver, hand-cranked contraption is usually kept behind glass at Good Vibrations’ Antique Vibrator Museum in San Francisco — but staff sexologist Carol Queen made a rare exception. “This is very special,” she whispered, unlocking the case and carefully pulling out Dr. Johansen’s Auto Vibrator, a relic from 1904. The “auto” part is not so much: It was a two-person job, with her having to crank the device’s handle to get it thrumming. Pressing my finger tips to its inch-wide circular platform of pleasure, I was pleasantly surprised by its power.
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Maggie Gyllenhaal on sexual liberation
The beloved indie star tells Salon about her "vibrator movie" and why she loves playing transgressive women
Maggie Gyllenhaal (Credit: Reuters/Mark Blinch) When I met Maggie Gyllenhaal about six weeks ago, she was enormously and gloriously pregnant, stretching out on a sofa with her shoes off and feet up in a Manhattan office building. (Since that time, Gyllenhaal and husband Peter Sarsgaard have welcomed their second daughter, Gloria Ray, to the world.) We were there to talk about “Hysteria,” the charming, lightweight feminist farce from director Tanya Wexler that explores a key event in the history of female sexuality: the invention of the vibrator by Mortimer Granville, a Victorian doctor who was seeking to cure the mysterious “female malady” that lends the movie its title.
Continue Reading CloseMother-daughter sexperts
Susie Bright and her daughter, Aretha, make parental talks about sex look easy -- and fun
Most parents loathe talking to their kids about the birds and the bees, let alone pubic hair grooming, faked orgasms and “water sports” — but most parents are not legendary “sexpert” Susie Bright.
Better than talking about these things, she penned an advice column in 2009 with her daughter, Aretha, then 19, for the ladyblog Jezebel. Their answers to questions about everything from porn to Paxil were unflinching but playful, and at times controversial. Now the pair have collected those columns into a new e-book, “Mother/Daughter Sex Advice.” Together, they read as an irreverent version of “Our Bodies, Ourselves” for the Internet age. The mother-daughter team also reflect on what the experience of writing the column was like, and it turns out it wasn’t as weird as many would think: For the most part, it was just a continuation of conversations they had been having throughout Aretha’s life.
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
On the rack: A cultural history of breasts
Did breasts evolve for lactation or to enhance sex appeal? A new book explores why they matter
(Credit: iStockphoto/NadyaPhoto) It’s hard to be boobs. Sure, breasts are cherished as givers of milk and the pinnacle of sex appeal, but the modern world hasn’t been good to mammaries.
As Florence Williams writes in “Breasts: A Natural and Unnatural History,” they’re the most tumor-prone organ in the human body. They “soak up pollution like a pair of soft sponges,” and transmit environmental toxins to babies through breast milk. “Breasts are bellwethers for the changing health of people,” she says. While we’ve “genetically modified our crops to be able to protect them from the ill effects of pesticides,” Williams writes, “we haven’t yet figured out how to modify our breasts.” Aside from using saline and silicone, of course.
Continue Reading Close
Tracy Clark-Flory is a staff writer at Salon. Follow @tracyclarkflory on Twitter. More Tracy Clark-Flory.
Page 1 of 403 in Sex