Inside every woman is a little bit o’ stripper

As promised, what follows is INSTALLEMENT DEUX in Curt & Meg’s Vegas Adventure. Uncork the other half of that bottle of wine from the last installment; you’ll need it.

So, the bodysnatcher helpful guy at the shameless timehshare snare information booth hooked us up with VIP passes to Coyote Ugly Saloon in New York, New York. After seeing Zumanity, we wandered upstairs and heard thumping loud rock music outside of the bar, so we headed inside to investigate.

Neither of us had ever seen the movie, but we had heard about the place, and thought it sounded like fun. Inside, we found quite a scene: Smokin’ hot hostesses, dancing on the bars, enticing other women to come on up and dance on the bar, where “bar” equals a rounded, small stage area at bar-height, surrounded by four stone-cold-sober bouncers positioned around the edge to catch any chicks who end up falling off. Super-loud rock anthems – the songs you sing at the top of your lungs while you’re driving alone in the car – are the musical fare. It’s a winning combination.

I was all, “oh, no, I couldn’t, I’ll just stand here and watch.” Yeah, that lasted about 10 minutes, until one of the hostesses beckoned me to the stage, and just like that, I was up there – ME! – shakin’ my moneymaker, in front of a full bar, including my enthusiastic husband, who was all WOOT! WOOT! WOOT!. I danced to AC/DC. I danced to Kiss. I sang all the words and I air-guitared. And then, as I was turning to leave, the hostess grabbed a bottle and asked me: “Do you want a shooter?”

“Sure, OK,” I said, and tipped my head back and opened wide so she could pour some sweet liquid into my mouth, one of many shooters she poured down assorted throats that night. And just like that, I was transported back in time to the mid-1980s, to any number of FRAT PARTIES, and it was then that I realized this: Despite all our grown-up responsibilities, there’s part of us that never really grows up. Everyone was doin’ shooters up there – sanctioned, free shooters. Because nobody doesn’t love a free drink! I asked one of the hostesses, so, what’s in the bottle? And she replied, “I really don’t know! Want one?” Um, I did.

I watched some more. There were a couple of ladies, roughly my age, who couldn’t get enough of the stage. They had to be dragged off.  Other groups of girls wandered in, all hesitant, and I was like, OH, GO ON, IT’S FUN, YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! And, they did. And that’s when I realized something else: Inside every girl there’s a little bit of stripper. Because once anyone got up on that stage, prim & proper went out the window, and bump & grind entered with a vengeance.  And really, what woman doesn’t want to dance to a whoopin’ and hollerin’ group of guys? Doesn’t matter if you were born in the 1960s or the 1980s – the language there spans the generations.

Bottom line: It was loud, bawdy, suggestive fun. It was probably the best party we happened upon during our days in Las Vegas. It’s not something I could do more than once every DECADE or so, but it was the right party at the right time, and if you like a rowdy party, you should go there next time you’re in Vegas.

Or at least, rent the movie.

**EDITED: By “Stripper” I mean “suggestive dancer.” Nobody up there actually disrobed. There were a couple of girls in the crowd who were throwing their bras around, but there was no stripping. Just… hot dancing.