Breaking: Strip Clubs In Reno, Nevada Are Less Than Ideal
Coming home from Tahoe this Sunday I had a little time to kill before my red eye and, like any non-gambling, red-blooded American the moment he sees the bright lights of casinos and chiming of slot machines, I had one thought, “Titties?” I immediately agreed with myself and replied, “Titties.”
Off I went to the front of the casino, sauntering past countless wheelchair-bound elderly folks at the penny slots, smoking as if it was required under Nevada state law, to hail a cab. I knew Nevada wasn’t exactly the world’s classiest place, my hotel room was a whopping $25 after all, so I didn’t want to just go to any booty club. “Nicest strip joint around, please,” I instructed the driver. He was foreign so as he started yammering on about his favorites I immediately tuned him out. I did, however, catch one piece of information that would make more sense later, “Spice Club will be the most likely to fuck you.” Sure! Sounds good!
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In retrospect, there is a vast difference between “nicest strip club in town” and “strip club where the strippers will fuck you.” It’s like asking for the “best doctor” then, as you hear the options, opting for the one who will give you drugs easily. The latter isn’t exactly going to be the most accredited medical professional or have the nicest office.
Nevertheless, I persisted. I strolled into the Spice Club and the booth at the front typically reserved for someone checking IDs, or taking a cover charge, or making sure you’re not carrying any weapons was vacant. The post had been abandoned. I thought it was a bit odd but after a beat I decided to just go in. When I walked in it was the most confusing strip club scene I’ve ever encountered, and I’ve been to a handful of such establishments. Music was blaring, lights were low, but there wasn’t a scantily clad girl on stage. There weren’t shot girls going around. There weren’t dancers lounging in men’s laps and asking if they needed a dance. Instead, all the dancers were huddled around a table, in their underwear, inhaling slices of pizza. They all looked up at me like raccoons who’d just been caught eating in the garbage, like I was the one in the wrong for walking into their house. As Seinfeld told us, there’s a good and bad naked and let me tell you, friends, Reno strippers eating buffalo chicken pizza in their underwear is not good naked.
Nevertheless, I persisted. I walked over to the bar, the one spot at the club anyone seemed to be doing their job, grabbed a beer, and asked the bartender if they’d mind changing Professional Bull Riding to the Oscars (admittedly a weird move, but if no one was gonna get naked I figured I’d fire out some tweets). That request was promptly denied and shortly thereafter a stripper finally acknowledged my presence and walked over with the enthusiasm of a DMV worker who was just about to go on break. When she stood I saw the most horrific sight I’d ever seen. Her bikini line looked like she’d just lost a massive amount of weight, perhaps a baby’s worth, and it was just a disaster scene. It looked as if she’d jumped on a grenade and it was kind of a dud. She had skin that looked like an old woman’s neck going from her belly button to her vagina. It was not a happy trail, but a sad trail. The saddest trail seen east of the Mississippi since the 1800s.
The only thing more offensive than this gal’s waistline was her attempt at conversation. It was legitimate torture. We were two people sitting there who genuinely detested each other. She hated me for interrupting her pizza binge, I hated her for coming into my life. But I’m a gentleman so I sat there, attempting to be polite by keeping my lunch down and refraining from acknowledging her bad tattoos or extreme lip piercing (there must have been six studs in her mouth). She had a job to do so she tried guilt me into seeing her naked. Turning down a stripper is about as uncomfortable as conversations get and this one was legitimate torture. It was so bad I had suspicions that she was actually just negging me and was trying to trick me into hating her so much that I just had to see her naked. The idea that she’d be so cunning was actually the most turned on I’d been since I entered the joint, but it still wasn’t enough.
I finished my beer, which I’d only ordered because I didn’t trust the cleanliness of the accoutrements that would be in my mixed drink, something told me the whole place wasn’t up to code, and got the hell out of there, first hitting an Outback Steakhouse (Reno’s finest) first then opting instead to get cancer from secondhand smoke at the casino bar rather than whatever unknown disease I’d catch at The Spice Club. The enemy you know, as they say.
All in all, not the greatest experience ever. I saw no titties, got grossed out, then had to catch a flight that landed me back in NYC at 9 AM. As far as classic nights go, this one wasn’t up there.