Scores

  Starting with the first morning after the first night, expensive bouquets of fresh-cut colorful flowers arrived at Scores with daily regularity. Each arrangement was invariably adorned with a card addressed to a dancer and contained heartfelt words in appreciation for a wonderful night and a hopeful future.

  Here’s the rub: The girls come and go constantly, use different names on different nights (or with different customers on the same night), and certainly don’t want to be bothered with flowers. So what were we to do with the never-ceasing crush of deliveries?

  I made an immediate and selfish decision that continued throughout my ownership years. We placed one bouquet on the club’s reception kiosk, and the rest were delivered to my law firm and home. I was consistently flooded with compliments from friends and clients in admiration of the time, concern, and care I undertook in filling my environs with sweet flora.

  I’m sure the senders will find solace in knowing their offerings went to good and meaningful use, even if not as intended.

  Our first brush with the power of celebrity took place early on. I arrived one night to find a young black man dancing on our bar as the center of the club’s collective attention. As he lacked even the most minimal anatomical requirements of a Scores entertainer, I sensed something was awry.

  I cornered Mark Yackow who excitedly told me the dancing man was Mike Davis, All-Pro cornerback for football’s Oakland Raiders. According to Mark, when the DJ identified the well-known athlete for the crowd, the place went buggy. At staff’s urging, Davis became a guest bartender, graciously signing autographs, and just lately had taken to bartop dancing.

  I thought all of this was just terrific; after all, we were supposed to be a sports bar too. As I happily observed the unfolding scene with Davis’s exuberance growing by the second, Yackow handed me an oversized manila envelope, remarking it contained X-rays he had agreed to hold for Davis.

  I took the films for safekeeping to the office. I have to admit curiosity got the better of me and I removed the X-rays from the envelope and held them to the light for a peek. Bemused, I found Mark and asked him to step into the office. With him standing beside me, I again held the film to the light and asked, “Well, what do you think?”

  “What is that?” he gasped, pointing to a square object in the middle of the chest cavity on the film.

  “Well Markie, that’s a pacemaker, and it sure as shit doesn’t belong to an NFL All-Pro cornerback.”

  We looked at each other and burst out laughing. “We’ve been had,” Mark roared, “me, you, and all the customers. We should throw his ass out of here.”

  “You know what,” I disagreed, “this guy is good for business. Let him get tired and then quietly let him know we’re on to him.”

  I was standing with Bildstein at the front door one evening when a small, slight black woman walked through the anteroom entrance. As we were not particularly crowded, I eyed her progress through the main theatre and into a public bathroom. About ten minutes later, I noticed the same woman emerging from the bathroom wearing an evening gown. She strolled into the lounge area and mounted one of the solo dance pedestals.

  As it would be unthinkable for a club dancer to dress in the customers’ restroom where latex application could not be supervised, I shared with Bildstein all I’d witnessed. He became instantly agitated, saying we’d been experiencing a few women sneaking into the club and secretly dancing for cash. I followed him as he set out to confront our uninvited guest entertainer.

  Yackow joined me at the pedestal as Jay pulled the dancer down and confirmed she was not an employee. As Jay threatened our trespasser with prosecution if she repeated her transgression, Mark interjected, “Maybe we should offer her a job. She’s cute and it took balls to do what she did.”

  I looked back at Mark in patent disbelief. “Mark, it didn’t take balls, she has balls!”

  When Yackow’s eyes wandered to her crotch, he went wide-eyed to find our dancer was as well-endowed as your average mule in heat. “Still think she’s cute?” I shouted after him as he fled the scene.

  Contrary to public perception, Saturday nights proved a misery for Scores, and bachelor parties were money-losing nightmares. On Saturdays, our usual clientele of wealthy businessmen, dressed in suits, ties, and credit cards, are home with the wife and kids. In their stead arrive an onslaught of blue-collar men in droves. These fellows complain about the parking and door charges, and especially bitch about the coatroom fee. To top it off, they have no money, try to convince all the women to have sex with them on the spot, and nurse a beer or two for the whole night. Entertainers earn significantly less on weekends and resist working, the club earns smaller revenues from minimal sales, and we have to employ an extra cleaning crew to rake up the vomit and steam clean the carpets to remove the acidic stench left behind.

  Here’s how bachelor parties invariably work. To save money, the stag gang usually loads up on booze at home or at local bars with cheaper drinks. By the time they get to us, they’re completely polluted, out of control, and usually looking for a fight. If I had my way, I would have abandoned the servicing of bachelor parties, but that just isn’t an option. By four in the morning, half the bachelor party guests are passed out on the floor and the dancers can’t wait to escape the premises.

  I remember one particular Saturday when I arrived at the club fairly late to find a young man sitting on the curb next to a deep pile of his own vomit. I sat with him because he seemed very familiar and I thought he might be a friend of a friend. The man was incoherent, put his head in my lap, and started to sadly moan. I called over one of the managers and admonished that “no customer should ever be allowed to get this drunk.”

  “I know, boss,” he replied with obvious exasperation, “but it’s hard to say no to a celebrity.”

  “To a celebrity?” I whispered in confusion. I then looked again at the young man driveling in my lap and realized it was Joey McIntyre from the boy band New Kids on the Block.

  I roared into action, directed the bouncers to take Joey back to his party in the club, and made arrangements for a limo back to his hotel. As we had no hoses to wash his gore from the sidewalk, I supervised its collection and removal into a plastic garbage bag.

  When I handed the bag to the doorman in disgust, he grimaced. “What should I do with this, boss?”

  Frustrated and not thinking, I sarcastically responded, “You could take it inside and put it on display with a sign, ‘New Puke on the Block.’”

  I went directly to the staff washroom and attempted to rid myself of the smell. When I returned to the club, I discovered to my amazement that the doorman had followed my instructions to the letter—the bag of barf was atop the anteroom’s display case, with identification sign proudly attached.

  “No one could possibly be this stupid,” I declared laughingly. My next thought was, I could take it to the law firm and store it with the dried bag of shit from the cruise line case, but I rejected the notion of starting a collection of unusual body wastes.

  Picking up the stinking bag from the kiosk, I walked outside and tossed it in a large dumpster, reminding myself to watch what I said to staff in the future.

  In our opening months, one of the biggest challenges we encountered was the fact customers were constantly running out of cash to purchase lap dances. We began publishing a list of local ATM machines, but patrons were either too annoyed or too drunk to go off into the night in search of cash dispensers.

  While regulars knew it was necessary to bring sufficient currency to satisfy their nightly needs, first-time patrons were often frustrated and angered. When I turned to Bildstein and the rest of our staff for answers as to how other successful clubs handled this problem, blank stares were returned.

  We were going to have to find a solution to our customers’ cash needs, especially since our entertainers were, in their minds, being denied their basic right to pick the clientele’s bank accounts clean.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

&nbs
p; Valuable Lessons for Strip Club Owners

  APRIL 1992

  As we reached our six-month milestone, I’d learned many lessons about the skin trade, and had become disabused of some urban legends about strippers and strip clubs. Despite the projected heterosexual ambiance of a strip bar, the majority of dancers are lesbian or bisexual, which actually makes perfect sense. Entertainers are expected to earn their nightly livelihood through constant projected sexual interest in any man—fat, skinny, bald, scraggy, lean, or smelly—holding a twenty-dollar bill. It’s far easier to successfully accomplish this equality of attention when the entertainer is already “acting,” and not truly aroused. Certainly there’s no anti-male attitude pervading the industry; quite the contrary, as no dancer wants to bite the hand that feeds her, but when an entertainer takes to her own sexual pleasuring, it’s likely she’ll be doing so with one of her own.

  Entertainers are not druggies, stupid, or sex addicts; that description applies more aptly to their customers. They are not scared little girls seeking to overcome sad or bitter relationships with their fathers. To my experience, most upscale strippers are, first and foremost, dedicated businesswomen. They support families, educate themselves, create luxurious and nurturing homes, study the Wall Street Journal for investment guidance, and own small businesses. With a small percentage of exceptions, the typical Scores girl was bright, savvy, motivated, and passionately involved in planning for her future. Entertainers are women who have chosen a short-term career, knowingly using their extraordinary looks to earn obscene amounts of money in ways not in conflict with their personal perceptions of morality. I know I received more good stock tips from dancers than brokers during my time at Scores.

  Upscale strip club dancers aren’t prostitutes either. Putting aside the matter of sexual preference, why would a young woman earning several thousand dollars each night risk her health and her job to grab a few hundred—or even thousand—dollars for sex? Now I’m not saying that a movie star, a professional athlete, an Arab sheik, or a true and generous millionaire couldn’t woo a Scores girl into the sack, but for the average Joe—forget it, pal! Not happening.

  Most Scores customers were not looking for sex anyway. Most regular patrons are middle-aged, married, and raising teenage children. They’re not seeking a tumble in the hay to assist their egos through a midlife crisis; they simply wish to experience the pleasure of female attention.

  Scores customers were more than satisfied with the acrobatics of a magnificent, lithe “Lolita,” so long as the duration and content of the encounter were limited and defined. Our men were pleased with the imposed limitations; they don’t want commitments, an end to their marriages, or disgrace. Most were smart enough to understand the dancer was in love with the money in their wallets and not their flabby, arthritic-bound bodies. Scores provided relief from life’s tensions and, more than anything else, a night of true fantasy—a chance to finally experience, without any guilt, the adoration of that cheerleader in college who thought you were a nerd! Well, you were a nerd, most rich guys were; so go for it, Dad, you’re not doing anything wrong. Your marriage vows will not be broken.

  As with every general conclusion, there are sad exceptions. There are misguided patrons who sadly buy into the fantasies of adoration and love purposely projected by ruthless entertainers who ought to know better. Such men are perfectly willing to forfeit their marriages, their friends, and all their worldly possessions to “feed” the fantasy of stripper devotion. Believe me, there is nothing sadder than a man ruined by the mocking love of a lesbian dancer on the day he discovers he’s been a fool.

  Let me tell you about one of my friends. He was a happily married businessman earning millions annually. To his credit, my balding, paunchy pal had a beautiful, charming, intelligent, caring spouse. I used to think he was the luckiest fat bald guy in the world. My buddy fell in love with a dancer, who also happened to be a lesbian with a life partner. Of course, my friend knew nothing of the dancer’s private life; he only knew she professed a deep and abiding love for him. On his visits to Scores, she would spend the entire night with him and he’d reward her with mounds of cash, thrilled to be the object of such ardor.

  I first became concerned when my friend bought the dancer a Mercedes and arranged for her to live in a luxury apartment in Manhattan. Weekend trips, jewels, and designer clothes followed in bundles. When word around the club suggested a new living arrangement was in the works for my friend and the dancer, I knew I needed to intervene.

  I called the dancer and threatened to end her career unless she and her girlfriend were willing to confess what they’d been concealing, and scheduled a meeting with all parties at my office. I will always remember the contorted face of my friend as the dancer admitted her sexual orientation, introduced her permanent partner, and confessed their relationship to be only a matter of money.

  After the ladies departed, my friend cried in shame and disappointment. But in the end, his anger turned against me. “Why did you put your nose in my business? Do I bother you? I would have won her away and you’ve ruined my happiness.”

  He never spoke to me again.

  Entertainers are ultimately protective of their positions at the club. There is a pecking order. Dancers know they can earn two or three times the cash working Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday nights, when the rich businessmen party, rather than Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, when the blue collars attack. As a consequence, many dancers—straight, lesbian, or bisexual—will offer their bodies to managers or owners in exchange for a better work schedule. They will also seek friendship with staff in order to sabotage rivals on the roster. More than most businesses, the strip business is only about the “holy dollar”—there are no degrees to obtain, promotions to earn, bonus perks, or vacations. There is only money—and don’t get in the way of a hot and earning entertainer if you can help it.

  The marriage of virtually every owner or manager of Scores was destroyed, or at least significantly damaged, by the sexually-charged reputation of the club. Wives do not recognize or believe in the final “Boredom” phase of ownership-management, and jealousy and insecurity are natural, unavoidable by-products of involvement. If you are the male manager of a strip club, ask yourself: if your wife was working in a place featuring 100 handsome, sculpted, and well-endowed naked men, wouldn’t your ego find itself under subtle, and constant, attack? Would you be persuaded by your spouse’s protestations that hundreds of penises and tight buns have no effect upon her?

  While I sat on the sidelines and observed the formerly happy union of one colleague after another go down the tubes, I came to realize I was happily immune from all such intrigue. As a gay owner of a female strip club, I lived in a relatively safe harbor while maintaining an extraordinary advantage in my position. If a dancer was looking for a favor, or someone to bend a rule, I was the last to be approached. I was impervious to the dancer’s most potent weapon—sexual attraction. Stripped of her ability to bribe me with pleasure, the otherwise confident and manipulative entertainer was required to plead her case on its merits—a desperate proposition. My exclusive concern was the well-being of the enterprise.

  I don’t raise this issue in judgment or condemnation of my fallen compatriots. To the contrary, I empathized greatly with their plight, knowing I could never act fairly or impartially with entertainers if I were the owner of a gay strip club. It just became radically clear that strip bar management and marriage are uncomfortable bedfellows, and the happily married should be wary of having their “dream job” morph into reality.

  It was a Tuesday night and the club had just begun filling. I’d seated a group of friends in the Champagne Lounge and was headed back through the main theatre to the office. It had been one of those days when everyone and everything annoyed me, and I was joyously looking forward to heading home to the arms of a waiting Calvin Klein model. Nearing the office, my eye was caught by some unusual bustle in one of the high-backed booths. As I came closer, a vigorous ongoing
lap dance drew my attention. I was frozen by the playing scene, actually blinking several times to ensure my mind wasn’t playing tricks.

  One of our entertainers was completely naked and indelicately gyrating herself around a casually dressed patron; and that was the “good” part. As the dancer plunged her tongue as deeply as it could possibly go into the customer’s mouth, his fingers were weaving their ways into and out of her vaginal canal. Both were sweating, moaning, and plainly close to climax. I choked back my reflex to forcibly rip the two apart.

  I hastily grabbed the closest floor manager and marched him over to the continuing pornographic improvisation. I harshly whispered through clenched teeth, “Doesn’t anybody watch what goes on in this place? Do you know how many laws those two are breaking? For God’s sake she’s naked, and we could all go to jail. I want you to break them up, fire her on the spot, and throw both of them out!” Then I stormed off.

  Looking a bit dazed and confused, the manager soon found me at the bar. “Boss, I can’t fire her.”

  “What are you saying? You want me to fire her?”

  “It’s not that. I can’t fire her because she doesn’t work here.”

  I’d heard enough and brushed past the manager, sprinting over to the couple. Before I could utter a single word, the offending customer extended his hand and said, “We’re really, really sorry.”

  I ignored his offer of a handshake. “Are you two insane? Do you even understand the consequences of your actions?” Turning to the woman, I added, “And I hear you don’t even work here. Are you here hustling for cash?”

  The man pleaded, “Please sit down for one minute and let us explain. Please.”

  Not knowing what else to do, I sat down as the red-faced fellow continued, “My name is Terry and this is my wife Karen—”

  “Your wife?” I interrupted. “What the hell?”