Having lived in Miami for a few months, I can now comment with some level of confidence on the culture of the city and the tastes of those who reside within its borders. Besides the rampant superficiality (awesome), lack of spoken English (convenient), and abundance of attractive “girls” (post-op), the most unique aspect of Miami is its strip clubs.

These strip clubs are unlike anything I have ever seen before. They dwarf all other strip clubs that I’ve visited in both size and density of strippers, not to mention that the sheer number of them is almost unbelievable.

This place used to be a Home Depot, or an airplane hangar

According to mapquest, there are 19 different establishments devoted to the treasured craft of pole dancing that can be reached in less than 20 minutes using my apartment complex as a starting point; this is impressive.  I have also come to notice that the parking lots of these strip clubs are nearly always full, and many offer sought-after perks illuminated in neon signs that read “Free Lunch Buffet”, “2 For 1 Happy Hour”, and  “Employees Must Wash Hands”.

I’ve never really enjoyed strip clubs the way that TV, movies, and most other guys say I’m supposed to.  I always feel like a bit of a failure if I have to pay a girl to rub her breasts and watch her go knuckle deep in her asshole. I tend to think that I, and guys in general, should get pussy for free, not to mention a poo knuckle, but maybe I’m in the minority in that respect. Also, if I’m not having sex with a strange woman it seems pointless to become aroused by her; I don’t sit in the garage with my car running and no plans of driving anywhere, what’s the point? For these reasons, until about 3 weeks ago I hadn’t been to a strip club in over 5 years and had no desire to do so.

This changed when my new roommate, who sleeps on the living room floor, moved in after a 9 month long trip to Costa Rica, where he spent the latter months of his trek as an illegal alien on the run from the Costa Rican police. Not only does my roommate thoroughly enjoy strip clubs, he is completely addicted to them. You know the Chris Rock stand up where he talks about the guy who goes to a regular club/bar, asks one girl to dance, gets turned down and immediately exclaims “There are only stupid bitches here, let’s go to the strip club”? My roommate is that person, and because he lacks any automotive means of transport, I have been in the habit of giving him rides to the strip club, usually at least 4 times a week, and a few times I’ve gone inside to see what the fuss is about.

Let me first say that, even though my general attitude toward strip clubs hasn’t changed, Miami strip clubs are leaps and bounds ahead of any other strip club I’ve ever visited. At the club pictured above (Tootsies), my roommate’s usual haunt, on any Sunday afternoon you will find $2.50 beers accompanied by football being broadcast on a variety of big screen TVs, as well as 50-70 different strippers roaming the club. Yes, 50-70, there’s even a screen that shows the upcoming strippers who will be featured on the main stage along with their pictures and names, so if you just have to get a dance from the chick with the 2 inch long nipples, you’ll know how to find her. Oh yeah, this club, along with most others in Miami, is full nude and full contact. This is a far cry from the no alcohol, partial nude sideshows that had previously monopolized my cabaret experience.

Despite the amenities offered by Tootsies, I still get bored after being there for more than 30 minutes. There are only a handful of ways that I can politely explain to a coked out stripper that my $25 is better spent on food and shelter than a lap dance, and this kind of discourse tends to annoy me. So, I either persuade my roommate to tear himself away from his hedonistic utopia, or I leave him there, forcing him to take the bus home. Surprisingly, he often opts for the latter.

It is clear to my roommate that I don’t treasure my time at the strip club the same way that he does, and in an effort to convert me to his way of thinking, he has pledged to take me to a variety of different strip clubs until I find my golden calf.  Thus far, I have only visited two clubs, both very distinct from one another.

Besides the aforementioned Tootsies, I have visited what my roommate calls a “black strip club”; I’m assuming the title refers to the fact that when I visited I was the only white person there. The differences between Tootsies and the black strip club, Take One, are too many to name, but I will focus on what I believe to be the most entertaining.

Tootsies gives visitors the option of valet parking their car, which is understandable when you realize that the Wal-Mart sized parking lot is difficult to navigate and lacks any sort of signage that may give customers a clue as to where they parked. I can imagine how this would be a problem when exiting the club at 5 a.m. in an alcohol induced haze, smelling of strawberry lip gloss, cigars, and Monistat. The parking lot of Take One, on the other hand, is paved with dirt, and visitors are regularly accosted by the parking lot “security guards” who promise to take extra special care of one’s vehicle for a small subsidy.

The kitchen in Tootsies offers a wide variety of dishes from prime rib to chicken wings, while Take One boasts a large grill in the parking lot manned by an elderly Haitian gentleman who talks to his staff loudly in an amalgamation of Creole and English; the grill specializes in fried chicken and ribs. Though I have never seen anyone order food at Tootsies, at least 6 guys in Take One dirtied their hands with chicken grease and bar b que sauce as they basked in the company of nude women, perhaps a testament to the skills of the chef.

In typical strip club fashion, Tootsies has a large main stage surrounded by chairs and a bar where onlookers can have a more personal gawking experience, but Take One is not constrained by unwritten cabaret rules and instead opts to have its stage behind the bar at a safe distance from customers. This setup makes it nearly impossible to tip, so girls go around after every song spent on the stage asking, “dollar for the dance?” This money is collected in a large bucket that could easily be mistaken for a spittoon, presumably utilized for its logistical advantage in the event that a patron decides to “make it rain”.

The final difference of interest between Tootsies and Take One is the selection of girls employed by the clubs. Tootsies houses girls of nearly every racial and ethnic background with a variety of heights, weights, and breast sizes while Take One hosts two varieties of stripper: childless “Tip Drill” video girl lookalike and MILF “Tip Drill” video girl lookalike. Though these two groups are distinct, a small scar and slightly stretched uterus are generally the only indications that speak to which group a stripper belongs.

Remember Sweat/Suit?

Now, you might think that I prefer Tootsies based on the information contained within this rant, but I must say that I would rather attend Take One any day of the week. While the normal gentlemen’s club humdrum keeps me as interested as Sarah Palin in geography class, Take One’s myriad idiosyncrasies are capable of entertaining me for hours.
My roommate is moving to Brazil in a couple weeks and I predict that his efforts to convert me to a strip club regular will prove fruitless, but at least he can claim responsibility for my $5 lap dance from a stripper named Miraculous, an experience that will be treasured for years to come.