By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
The phrase "booty quake" will never hold the same meaning after our visit to Fantasy Castle's Monday-night show. The term usually evokes an image of ass cheeks rhythmically flapping together, but now we have a new, permanently seared memory: one of a topless woman with loose belly skin shoving a beer bottle down her crack amidst the waves of a cratered heinie.
The venue: Somewhat shoddy/tacky, Fantasy Castle is covered in plywood painted to mimic castle mortars, complete with turrets and gaudy Grecian sculptures.
The dancers: Our visit got off to a rocky start. Loosely rubbing the pole with their large fake breasts and sucking on their own nipples with minimal enthusiasm seemed to be the extent of the ladies' ambitions, until some fine gentleman decided to throw money on a few of the girls. Suddenly, as if they had been awakened from a horny slumber, they were spreading eagle and attacking the pole with gusto.
The rejuvenated morale began with Sexxxy, a beautiful black diva with a gap-toothed smile. She burst onstage with a pole spin that quickly transformed into the splits, then mimicked fellatio. Then she attempted a combo leg-splay tease and Spinning Snake that morphed into a Descending Angel, ending with a booty smack. Truly magnificent.
Only Gina, whose small frame and sensual movements on the pole gave her a combination of grace and freakish monkey strength, surpassed Sexxxy's performance. We don't know if her parents were circus people or just emotionally abusive, but Gina's talents were truly awe-inspiring. She successfully transitioned from a Spinning Helicopter into the Descending Angel, with a jawdropping leg-splay split. As if that weren't enough, she then did a summersault into a center split! If we had money, we would have thrown it at her.
Last word: Overall, an evening well-spent. The ladies are kind and talented, and the staff is truly welcoming. They've got girls in every color, shape and size—and ones who'll shove beer bottles down their cracks.
Fantasy Castle, 2800 Walnut Ave., Signal Hill, (562) 427-9657; www.fantasyshowclubs.com.
Apparently, Monday nights aren't exactly popping at these stripping establishments—or so we thought, until we ventured into California Girls. We were immediately surprised by the number of male customers, and thanks to the reasonable drink prices, they got plenty loud and drunk—which made them more entertaining than the dancers. Especially here—these girls were just plain sleazy. We're talking acrylic everything, right down to the fibers in their weaves. You'd think all those dollar bills would buy some decent extensions, but we guess they need to go toward more important things. Like Big Macs.
The venue: California Girls (we went to the Anaheim locale; there are others in Fullerton and Santa Ana) is basically a large room lined with dirty mirrors and fake wood paneling, filled with fake-breasted "dancers" and ear-bleeding music. The only blessing is the booze, which is pretty cheap compared to some other places.
The dancers: Despite the hefty turnout of party-ready gentlemen, the ladies didn't seem to want to work for their money. We are in an economic downturn here—let's work a little harder, huh? That said, the ladies didn't have much of a stimulus package, as the pole tricks were kept to a minimum—a huge disappointment because the "show" devolved into a mélange of fat strippers jostling their blubber and begging for money like it was cake. And we mean fat—back-and-belly-rolls-hanging-over-the-G-string fat. Not pretty.
One dancer, however, defied the weight standard. This girl, whose name we didn't catch, barely had an ounce of fat on her petite frame. She was skin and bones, sticking out like a toothpick in a boxful of Twinkies. The poor thing's bikini top was just sagging off her rib-rippled chest, and in her chosen career path, that can't be good for tips. Her appearance simply screamed malnutrition, and ironically enough, she only danced to songs about cocaine. Hmmm . . . wonder why?
Last word: The Beach Boys were wrong—we don't wish they all could be California Girls.
California Girls, 815 S. Brookhurst St., Anaheim, (714) 635-8040; also at 1189 E. Ash Ave., Fullerton, (714) 447-0691; 1109 N. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 554-0491; www.californiagirlsgc.com.
LARRY FLYNT'S HUSTLER CLUB
Larry Flynt isn't exactly known for being the classiest of gentlemen. The man claims his first sexual experience was with a live chicken at the age of 9, but his local establishment, the Hustler Club, is pure elegance. The place is by far the nicest strip club in the county, and the staff are as sweet as canned peaches.
The venue: The interior of the Hustler Club is the cleanest around—we could tell this was an upscale environment because it looked like someone had actually cleaned the mirrors behind the stage sometime in the past few days. Other than the mirrors, the club offers clean velvet seats, impressive lighting, three stripper poles, tons of plasma-screen TVs, and a slew of pool tables for when you're looking to smack the old balls around with something other than a stripper's ass.
The dancers: Despite a meager crowd on our visit, these ladies dropped it like it was hot. Also, it should be noted, three out of four dancers had real boobies—quite refreshing after long nights of floundering in a sea of silicone and saline for this story.