From: df@accelenet.net (Dave's Friend) Subject: ASSC Con LA Date: Thu, 16 Jul 1998 09:05:22 -0700 A note on footnotes (I guess this is a non-mock 003 note): I can't see them in Gravity. I only have DrD's word that they didn't show up in the RTF version of the document. So I copied everything from word into a Gravity posting window, and added footnote numbers that I can see. Better news readers may see two footnotes. ASS-C Con Los Angeles Short version: I had some drinks and a burger at Cherries, a topless club, then went to the Jet Strip where I saw some good looking naked women, Saxbeat, Zbone, Delta9, OC_ROB, The Kid, LMR and some chat room members whose names I'm not sure I can mention. I had a couple of dances and went home. The End. The long, long version. I love alcohol. I love the burning sensation of a Jack Daniel's straight up; I love the taste of a cold beer washing the road dust out of my throat. I love the sweet taste of Myers and OJ. I love the refreshing, quenching tingle from a Gin and Tonic. I love the clean, crisp taste of a dry martini. I love scantily clad women. Dancers don't walk. Dancers know how to traverse the ground so that their curves tell a story about desire, need, lust. The allure of a dancer is how she communicates with her whole body, touching you briefly, leaning close, catching your eye, laughing at an off-hand remark. The mark of a great dancer is that her attention makes you think, "hey, I think she likes me". And also, you're drunk. I love insecure women, and all women have doubts about their looks. When they wear next-to-nothing it's even better because their flaws are so much harder to hide, and they don't know that their beauty is in their flaws, not in their perfection. Needless to say, I like strip clubs, and an excuse to visit a club should not be wasted. As a matter of fact, it should be made wasted, if at all possible. I rushed to my car around five. The traffic report on the Internet said the 91 was clear from where I was through the 57. So I decided to have my pre-ASSCon meal and drinks at Cherrie's, nee Woodies, where I once fell hard for a dancer who fortunately does not work there any more (TDWWIWOI )[1]. The traffic was awful, and I averaged about ten miles an hour to the club. It's hard to believe a government web site could be inaccurate .[2] Worse, Wells Fargo is closing the bank branch near the club, and given the exorbitant fees they charge to use other ATMs, I may not stop by as often any more. Right now I go there every couple of months. Sibyl is a blond dancer who, yes, looks like the Mercedes peddler from the neck up. She's doesn't have much going for her figure-wise, but she makes up for it with attentiveness: she brought me several drinks and ordered my food. So I bought a couple of dancers for her - oops, from her. Anyway, she gives good dances, considering that alcohol places are supposed to be air only. A blessed Polynesian woman looked really cute, but she left with the day shift. The night shift started and there was an inexcusable gap of twenty minutes of empty stage. Right when I was eating, so I couldn't just leave. Well, not without starving. Rian danced next, a petite, redhead trailer park type whose overbite drove me crazy. I ordered a very dry Sky martini, with a twist and a water back. When the waitress got back she brought something with an olive in it, and apologized because they didn't have any more of the "very dry" vermouth .[3] So I'd recommend against ordering a martini in this bar. Or anything that requires much thought or care. Rian sat with me for a while and she said several things that make me want to come back to see her: she likes getting spankings, and she brings scrunchies [4]on dates. Unfortunately, time was marching on, and I wanted to get to The Jet Strip while I could still get in free with my Zbone coupon. The drive was uneventful, considering that I only had a vague idea of how to get there, although I knew the cross streets. I took 91 to 110 to 105, about 20 miles, but the traffic was light and I got there in about a half an hour. As I walked in, just after 8, a large group of blue-collar guys were in the foyer paying their cover. The doorman-DJ cut me some slack and let me in free after starting the next song. The group in front of me sat at the only large table in the place, so I surveyed the club to see if anyone looked as if they were there for the convention. I had been to the Jet Strip before, but it is now so different that my previous visit may as well have been to a different club. The club is smoke black, with polished chrome accents and neon signs in festive colors. The music is not too loud, and the DJ didn't seem particularly annoying. As one enters, the three tiered stage is directly ahead. The stage has a large oval near the wall where dancers emerge from behind silver curtains. The stage is in the general shape of ones "bits and pieces", the bits [5] in the back, and narrower extension that descends from eye-to-ankle level to eye-to-snappy level, and down again to eye- to-tit level at the fore of the stage. For some reason the lowest level reminded me of a mosh pit. Cicero must have been thinking of the dancers here when he said, "Meliora sunt ea quae natura quam illa quae arte perfecta sunt." [6] The dancers were all stunning, trim, firm with natural breasts. Or is that trim, with firm natural breasts? They were brunettes for the most part with more than a few Latin Americans (who didn't speak Latin), a couple of Asians, two or three blondes and one or two women of color. The first three dancers, Nickie, Star and Panther knocked my socks off. Or they would have if I had been wearing any .[7] Nickie was petite with natural C cup breasts, light brown hair, and a lovely Brazilian accent. Star, a tall, lithe, small-breasted brunette had a light on behind her eyes, knowing how to move, make eye contact and smile so that I felt as if I was special. Panther is a dark-haired, olive skinned spinner who wore a collar and whose sultry look caught my eye like a carelessly flung fishing lure. I couldn't stop leering at her. Fortunately for my meager blood supply, Jade was next, and while she was very good looking, she couldn't compare to the first three, and made no effort to get my attention. At last able to look away from the stage, I tried to figure out who was with the ASSC Con and who wasn't. First I looked for nerdy white and Asian guys. That didn't narrow it down at all. As it turned out, pretty much every nerdy white or Asian guy there was there for the convention. Eventually I had to check out the rest room, which was ineptly designed. It's impossible to get to the second urinal without making contact with the guy in the first urinal. Icch. The guy draining next to me kept ranting about how proud he was that he doesn't drink, that people who drink do stupid things. Fuck you for disparaging noble drunkenness. What a colossal asshole, I thought. Hey -- could this skinny tall white guy be Sai Babba? As I left the rest room I noticed several guys talking to each other. Aha, attendees. They were all lurkers, and we had a nice chat, then I returned to my spot at the stage. I noticed two couples enter, and one of the lurkers went over to greet them. The women were pretty hot looking, so I went over to meet them too. They didn't know who I was, which made us even. I guess these guys are "chat" people, distinct from true ASS-C'ers in that they don't read ASS-C. I returned to my station at the rail. Someone familiar had planted himself downstream from me, but I just couldn't place him. Oh well, if I knew him then he wasn't Zbone or Saxbeat, so I didn't rush over to talk to him. He, on the other hand, had far better manners because he's Canadian, eh? It was odd seeing someone I knew from Toronto here in LA Delta9 thought that I didn't like Canadians, so I explained that I liked Canada - and Canadians, but I didn't like the government. The lurkers didn't know why until we discussed the Breathalyzer rules: Canadian cops hide out places and screen drivers. The legal limit is 0.08, but if you blow a 0.05 you get your car confiscated and you are placed in jail for twelve hours. You didn't do anything illegal, but hey, that's Canada. I was trying to decide which of the first three dancers I wanted a dance with, and went for Guy Rule #1: when in doubt, pick the one with the biggest tits. Nickie it was. She did fine, but at $30 a pop, I didn't want to enjoy it too much. Finally Zbone made his entrance with LMR, Saxbeat, The Kid and a couple of dancers (Rayne and Sydney/Jet Li) in his entourage. To me Zbone looks like a mix of Fu Man Chu and Eddie Van Halen. But who cares what he looks like: LMR is still a dreamboat. Rayne looked really hot, although femdoms don't do it for me, and she intimidated me. Sydney, was hot too, AND fun to talk with. She said she liked me. The initial-stealing DragonFly was there, as well as OC_ROB. Zbone wore a LAAR nametag, probably trying to score with the guys. And I guess it worked because he and LMR went back to the lap booths together, sans dancer, returning in just a few seconds. I suppose they were just checking for soy sauce on Zbone's "rice". And I thought I was quick. [8] As Saxbeat and I chatted, and I tried to decide which dancer to do next. Every time the dancers came by I was engrossed in conversation, so I was only approached by the most clueless. This did not include Star or Panther. Panther is incredibly sexy, but Star seems brighter, and overall I knew I'd enjoy her company more. Star had lots of dances, and skipped me a couple of times as she made her rounds. One time the sumptuous J____ took Star to the back for a lapdance so her lucky boyfriend K____ could watch. Oh to be a fly on the wall in that booth. Insert your own joke here, my fly's stuck. J___ also pissed me off by demanding nametags, after we were explicitly told by A Well Placed Source [9] that we didn't need any stinking badges. On the other hand, she's so good looking, who could stay mad at her? Finally Saxbeat went home and I corralled Star. Well, she asked if I was ready for a dance, and I answered, "only for the last month or so". So she apologized for having so many dances before me. Her personality and wit are perfect for her job: she made me think that she felt privileged to dance for me. She told me her real name and I told her mine. "Ooh, that sounds like royalty. Are you royalty?" "No, I'm a poor guy with money." "That's my favorite kind," she gushed, and I believe her. The first dance was very similar to Nickie's, although Nickie flashed her ample cleavage at me more frequently, Star kept more contact, and initiated a gentle rhythm that is so hard to disrupt as long as you have money. Naturally we did a second song and she allowed slightly more contact from me, while still maintaining that all-important gentle frottage. Then she began the ecdysiasm. "I'm not trying to push or anything… but if you get a third song, you'll get the spacer song for free." She also intimated that there was untouched territory that would not remain so. "You mean that for ninety dollars you'll wiggle around on my lap and let me touch you in a couple of intimate places and maybe flash me an A cup now and then?" Cool. "I think you're rilly cute. Rilly, I'm not just saying that. Go ask all the guys I danced for if I told them they were cute, they'll say no". Right. Like I'm going to interview guys for whom she's already danced. Further, who gives a fuck if she thinks I'm cute. I don't want to be cute. Shirley Temple's cute. Zbone's cute. I always wanted to be… a lumberjack. If it was the thought that counted, she'd be forgiven. When I finally staggered back into the main room everyone else was gone. I deposited my badge on a table and went to extract my car from the valet. It's around thirty-five miles home, easy driving, but far too late for this day-shift specialist. My vote for next time, as if it counts, would be for Bellflower Fritz. It's more sociable, cheaper, plus they have booze. ============== 1 The Dancer With Whom I Was Once Infatuated, i.e., Allie Cat 2 This remark is sarcastic. Not this one, the one right before the footnote number. Up there. 3 A very dry vodka martini is an alcoholic's way of asking for straight vodka. A twist is a twist of lemon, not an olive. Note that there was not water, either. The point is, the service sucks. 4 A scrunchie holds one's hair in a ponytail. Hence, when giving head, she doesn't need to stop to pull hair out of her mouth. 5 Nuts, balls, testicles - get it? 6 Loosely translated, "Natural tits are better". More accurately translated, "Things perfected by nature are better than those finished by art." 7 I was wearing Berkinstocks. 8 I am NOT jealous. 9 Monica Saxbinsky -- Dave's Friend http://members.aol.com/jrswift/toronto/dfrev.htm df@accelenet.net