Seven hours, five strip clubs, countless crotches and a gaggle of horny men

By Erin Randolph

erin@dmcityview.com

"Are you girls strippers?"

We haven't even been in Outer Limits, a northeast side topless bar, for five minutes. We find a seat at the bar with our backs to the stage and order Captains and Coke, in a liquid-fueled attempt at killing our discomfort, before some middle-aged man decides to sidle over to coworker Jen and I, to pose that question.

"No," Jen tells him.

"Then what are you doing here?" he asks.

"Hanging out."

But he doesn't move. Instead, he continues to stare at us while we sip our too-strong mixed drinks through skinny straws, trying not to act as awkward as we both feel. And we feel pretty awkward, seeing as how just about every pair of eyes in the joint was looking at us as we entered the bar. We've never been in a strip club before, let alone a topless bar. So needless to say, we are feeling out of our element even before this man begins to engage us in conversation. We remain silent, though we can feel his eyes on us.

"Well? Aren't you going to talk to me?" he says a while later.

Jen and I decide it's simply best to not even grace such a question with an answer. Eventually, a few minutes too late if you ask us, the guy gets the hint and he disappears - probably off to find a real dancer who will give him the time of day he thinks he deserves, at least for the right amount of money.

This won't be the only time tonight we'll receive uninvited and awkward advances from men. It's a Thursday night, and us strip club virgins are on a mission to visit the metro area's five clubs: Outer Limits, Minx Show Palace, The Lumber Yard, Big Earl's and Beach Girls. We'll spend seven hours driving from place to place, watching women lose their clothing and writhe on poles and shake their tits in men's faces and sit on their laps. We'll meet a stripper who's starred in more than 400 porn films who namedrops Ron Jeremy and who lets us take her picture in the VIP room of Big Earl's while, a few feet away, a dancer sits practically naked on some paying customer's lap, giving him a thrill or two while one of the pornstar's films plays on a flat-screen television in front of them. We'll be turned down at more than one door because we're sans male escorts, and only let in because, of course, we're working, and because, of course, we're begging.

We'll get asked if we want private dances by female strippers and have a hell of a time coordinating photos to accompany this article. Most of all, however, we'll document our travels in great detail, including said foray into Big Earl's VIP room, in an effort to bring you an uncensored look at Des Moines' strip clubs, the patrons who frequent them, the dancers who work for them and how we overcame our initial awkwardness and became desensitized to the whole process. The following accounts may not be pretty (hell, some of the dancers won't even be pretty), but they're true.

Outer Limits is located on N.E. 14th Street, north of Interstate 80, but not quite as far as Ankeny. It's just a short drive north of the Minx Show Palace and an even shorter drive north of The Lumber Yard. For those looking to visit several strip clubs in a short period of time, this area of town's the place to be. (Big Earl's is one interstate exit away.)

It's a small little joint, and on this Thursday at about 5:30 p.m., the parking lot is dotted with industrial-type vans and pickup trucks. The clientele is made up mainly of middle-aged, blue-collar men getting an early start on the weekend with some booze and boobs. Since Outer Limits has a full bar, the dancers can only get topless, though their teeny-tiny thongs leave only a few orifices to the imagination.

Though Jen and I haven't imbibed enough liquid courage to warrant facing the stage at our backs to watch the dancer, I do see another dancer working the tables. As she approaches a table of men at least 25 years her senior, she bobs her right boob a few times with a cupped palm and proclaims, "Look at how these shake." Pretty well. Finally looking around at our surroundings, Jen and I realize we're the only women in the joint not employed there.

Two men are seated at "Sniffer's Row" (a truly repulsive term used for the seats that butt up against the stage, where men and women can toss a few bills in exchange for a close up and perhaps some touching), one eating, while a dancer who looks barely a day over 18 shimmies to a block of U2 songs. She's very petite - short and skinny with small breasts and a very youthful face. Sometime during "Mysterious Ways," she loses her fluorescent green bikini top and the lacy black panties that are covering up her barely there thong. We hear the bartender refer to her as "Amber." Whether that's her real name or not is unknown.

As she moves in step with the rhythm of the song, her long, straight, blonde hair brushes against her back as she approaches a man seated at Sniffer's Row (heretofore referred to as S.R., if only to avoid the visual that accompanies the term). She wraps her legs around his neck, sits in his lap and writhes for a while, staring into his eyes seductively before returning to the stage to swing around the pole and collect a few more dollars from the other couple men sitting at S.R. Oh, and there's definitely some touching of the dancers, as one or two of the men probably twice as old as the dancer take it upon themselves to grab her bare ass cheeks.

There are televisions on the walls playing sporting events, but all eyes are either pointed at the stage or at the other dancers - some more curvey than others - wandering around the joint looking for a vacant lap and an opportunity to pull one aside in a private room. Three pool tables sit in an adjacent room that look as though they've barely been used, though the gaggle of trophies on display suggests otherwise. Ironically, two long benches spanning the length of the back wall in the poolroom resemble church pews.

While we're at Outer Limits, we'll see three dancers. Men will come and go from S.R. depending on their taste in women and whether or not they're ready to refuel at the bar. As our glasses run dry, save for a few ice cubes, we decide we've seen enough and that it's time to head to the next stop.

As we approach a warehouse-type building (it even has a few garages at the back) known as Minx Show Palace on N.E. Broadway, we're met at the door by a security guard who informs us that we will not be able to enter the establishment because there is no man with us. Minx tries to be a true gentlemen's club, he explains, so they try to keep wives and girlfriends from potentially running into husbands or boyfriends staring at other naked women. This, as one would imagine, could cause some problems.

It's also supposedly for the protection of the dancers. They apparently get jealous if single women come in and take attention away from them, the security guard says. We explain why we're there, and after five minutes of what seems like an endless supply of security guards coming in and out of doors and speaking to people through small microphones and earphones, a person we take to be the owner comes out and explains, all over again, why security's so tight at Minx. (Some people even get patted down before they're allowed to enter.) Eventually, though, he allows us to be escorted by a security guard into the back of the club and stay for about 10 minutes or so.

As we enter the building, we pause in the doorway to allow our eyes to adjust to the darkness. We're then escorted to an acceptable table with comfy chairs a ways away from the stage. So far away, in fact, that in the cavernous purple-tinted room, we can barely tell whether or not the dancer on stage is, in fact, naked or not. (She is.) The thin dancer (that's about all we can tell about her) is up on a large platform with a 700-gallon fish tank as a backdrop. On either side are a few lit-up, bubble-filled pole lamps that double as palm trees.

A few men sit at tables by themselves with cases of beer at their sides (Minx is BYOB), while a few more have women at their sides. We can't tell whether or not these women are dancers or if they're just female acquaintances. It's so dark in the club that it's hard to even make out facial features, let alone anything else. All of the dancers we do see strutting around in platform stilettos are thin and appear to be very pretty.

A DJ spins tunes and barks through a microphone while the dancer on stage does her thing: writhing, swaying, petting, rubbing and many more verbs ending in "ing." Again, she treats the men in S.R. to some one-on-one time, pulling their faces into her cleavage as she knocks her boobs back and forth against the men's cheeks.

We take in as much as we can in 10 minutes without being able to decipher much in the way of detail, and decide to move on to the next club. On the way out, a security guard informs us that Minx rents out coolers full of ice for $5, and that 14 to 15 dancers are scheduled for weekend nights, and about 10 for weeknights. If the dancers look anything like we imagine they do, we imagine the clientele generally leaves "happy," if you know what we mean.

By the end of the night, we decide that Minx appears to be the highest-class, most private of the strip clubs we visit.

As we approach The Lumber Yard, we hope we won't be greeted by the same hassle we faced at Minx. Appropriately enough, the BYOB, fully nude strip club is located in an industrial area on N.E. 54th Street not far north of Interstate 80. We've heard the catch phrase a million times before, "Where real men go to get wood." With a pun like that, we figure this gives The Lumber Yard the best porn name of the places we visit (it would have gone to Pandora's Box, had it not burned down recently).

This was another BYOB establishment, and needless to say, we didn't come prepared. It's now been about a half-hour since we've had anything to drink, and the prospect of entering another strip club while very much sober doesn't exactly sound appealing. Yet we do anyway. Since we're there early enough (before 8 p.m.), we don't have to pay a cover. Normally, cover is $10 during the week and $15 on the weekend. Nobody said free peeks were cheap.

From the outside, the size of The Lumber Yard is deceiving. Inside, the place is gigantic, definitely the largest strip club in Des Moines with a whopping four stages, including one that has double-headed showers. Yes, double-headed showers. Unfortunately, we don't get to see them in action. Instead, only one stage is being used, considering it's still fairly early on a Thursday night. A few of the tables covered with white tablecloths are occupied with men and coolers filled with beer, and a few of the men's laps are occupied with (who else?) dancers looking to coerce them into (what else?) a little paid private time.

We take a seat in the back corner facing the stage, sitting once again in nice, comfy chairs. A new dancer takes the stage, a tall, lanky brunette with long wavy hair. Her routine differs little from every other dancer we've already seen, except that she has more ground to cover. She'll spend most of her time dancing specifically for the three men seated up at S.R., teasing them as she loses what little clothing she's already wearing.

A tattooed dancer with a pageboy haircut and a Betty Page-inspired getup escorts a middle-aged man downstairs to a private area, while the featured dancer rubs a man's nose in her cleavage as he caresses her ass and back. By far, The Lumber Yard has the most dancers in the best costumes with the most diversity of any of the strip clubs. There are tattooed girls, a girl with her lip pierced, a girl in a schoolgirl outfit, a girl with a blinking clit ring and much, much more. You want it in a dancer, a dancer probably has it at The Lumber Yard.

Once again, there are plenty of TVs, including some extremely large projection screens, with sports on, though nobody appears to be watching them. A downstairs area, next to the porn shop, has several pool tables, yet nobody is playing them. And though at the previous strip clubs, the dancers were stripping to songs not even fit for KGGO, The Lumber Yard finally provides some more youthful, current music. This perhaps reflects the younger, hipper crowd that frequents the establishment.
We stay for a while, long enough to get the gist. Jen heads for the single-stall women's restroom as we're on the way out. I spot some memorabilia next to the entrance and decide to give it a once-over. There's some photos of dancers and T-shirts and stocking caps that either say "Got Wood?" or "The Lumberyard: Where Real Men Go to Get Wood." I'm not there long before a guy approaches me, perhaps in his 20s, questioning the paper and pen I'm writing in.

"Do you work for a newspaper or something?" he asks.

"Yes."

"So you're not drinking, then?"

"Later tonight, probably," I reply.

"Where are you going to go?"

Perhaps the look on my face already said I wasn't interested in picking up a man at a strip club, or perhaps the reply - "To my boyfriends'" - was enough of a hint.

"Oh, that means 'go away,'" he says. "I get it."

Finally, I think, a man who can take a hint. Jen returns and we head to the car. But before we depart for the next destination, knowing full well it's BYOB, we decide we've gone long enough without liquid accompaniment.

With a six-pack of Bud Light tallboys in hand, we saunter up to the entrance to Big Earl's, Iowa's oldest, most reputable strip club. Once again, we're met inside the door by a security guard who tells us that without a male escort, we're not allowed inside. And once again, we're forced to explain why we're there. He disappears for a moment, returning to tell us that the manager, Tina, will be out shortly.
About five minutes later, Tina meets us in the entrance and escorts us into the club after we explain our assignment. No sooner do we enter the door than we meet the night's feature dancer: Ruby, a former porn star and former licensed prostitute at the famed Bunny Ranch. We promise to catch up with her later, as Tina takes us on a tour of the VIP room. Inside, there are several small booths with red couches and flat-screen TVs. On them is porno - specifically one that Ruby is in - though sometimes they change them to sporting events at the patron's will. There's also a larger dance area with red couches, a light box stage and pole for private bachelor parties.

On the stage in the main area, dancing to an Evanescence song, is a blonde with a short bob and bangs, a tight little body and perky boobs who is dressed in a short red skirt and sparkly platform stiletto heels. She lays down in front of a guy on S.R. and rubs her crotch seductively, and puts another's head in her boobs and gives it a good shake. She stands back up and leans against the pole, rubbing her boobs and stomach before kneeling with her legs spread open and rubbing her crotch.

As the dancer continues her three-song routine and the other dancers work the crowd, Ruby, 33, pulls up a chair and regales us - unedited - with her background in stripping, acting in porn films and her stint in prostitution. The busty redhead (supposedly known for her intense orgasms) is from Ohio, and is married to a guy who's now serving in Afghanistan (her maid of honor was an old hooker she worked with at the Bunny Ranch). She met him while stripping for him in a club in North Carolina. They've almost been married a year now. Him being away means "lots of celibacy, lots of masturbation and lots of government-monitored phone sex."

She's planning to work for another five years as a feature dancer, as well as direct a porn film in 2007. All her performances are themed. Remember that dance Demi Moore did in "Striptease"? Well, Ruby maintains she was doing that dance four years before that movie came out. Someone must've seen it and copied it, Ruby reasons. After a while, Ruby disappears to prepare for her next show.

In the meantime, we watch the dancers on stage and marvel at the job of the DJ. "Don't be shy guys," he says excitedly over the din of the music, at this point Cake's "Going the Distance." "Pull up to the stage and get some titties in your face." I head to the bathroom to release some used beer, only to find a stripper on Jen's lap when I return. She asks if Jen wants a private dance. Jen bashfully declines. Meanwhile, a dancer with thigh-high white boots and a hot pink getup climbs the height of the pole and wraps one leg around, flipping her body around athletically and making the best use of the pole we've seen thus far tonight. As she strips, we see that she's got a neatly groomed patch (but only a patch), the first we've seen tonight.

At one point, she licks her fingers and rubs her stuff for the men at S.R. before climbing into a lap, licking the man's ear and humping his waist while he pulls at her naked flesh. Plus, she's very flexible (we'll leave it at that). At one point, she puts her writhing crotch in the face of a man at S.R., prompting him to remove his ball cap. She makes us feel sexually boring. We reason we should probably be taking notes.

Finally, it's time for Ruby. She takes the stage in a weird, but elaborate, wizard's robe, leaving a lot to the imagination, as most of her body is completely covered. She slowly takes off what seems like an endless supply of clothing to songs with magic or wizardry themes until she's completely naked. She flexes the muscles in her chest, causing her large breasts to jump to the beat of the music. She later straddles a stool and does the same with her round butt cheeks.

Later, she pulls a few men on stage who are willing to part ways with some cash. She lays them on their backs, sits on their face and waxes their foreheads and face. She then rubs her boobs on his chest, while sticking her hands down his pants for a shameless grab at his goods, exclaiming to the audience (curiously, every time) just how well-endowed he is. The DJ keeps reminding the men in the audience that she's a porn star, and who doesn't want the chance to have porn star juice on his face? Then, she set up for a game of Cooter Ball, where men can crinkle up dollar bills and attempt to sink them into a glass Ruby has placed between her spread-eagle legs in exchange for porn.

We stay at Big Earl's the longest of any of the strip clubs, mostly because the prospect of seeing Ruby's wizard-themed routine is too great to pass up. Once she's through, however, we decide it's time to head out to the West Side's only topless bar.

Beach Girls is a little out of the way. It's off Grand Avenue on an extremely bumpy gravel road. As we enter, we're pleased to find out that ladies don't pay a cover. We figure this affords us the opportunity to order a cocktail. With my Captain and Coke and Jen's straight Coke, we find a table away from the stage to observe the night's entertainment.

Beach Girls has a very unique stage, with two large octagonal platforms
connected by a long runway. Here, skinny blondes (most are blonde, anyway) in tiny G-strings prance around on stage in stiletto platforms (sensing a theme yet?) - one on each octagon - as their boobs jiggle - or don't, depending on their size.

By now (though we arguably hit this point at Big Earl's), we see Beach Girls as just another strip club and the women on stage as just more dancers. There's nothing new to offer here. Not that it's any worse than the others by any means, because it's not. But again, there are a few pool tables in the back. The chairs are once again pretty plush and comfortable. A back room away from the hubbub allows dancers and those forking over the money some purchased privacy.

A DJ - though this time inaudible due to his use of a bizarre voice - prompts people to fork over money and belly up to S.R. for some boobs to the face and an ass grab. We've seen it all before, and we still need to head back to The Lumber Yard and Big Earl's to take photos of dancers. It's nearing midnight, meaning we've been at this now for nearly seven hours, and we reason it's time to move on. We've seen more tits and ass than porn film marathon. Desensitized, yet still a little intrigued by the alternate universe that exists behind strip club walls, we head home to our men, now a little more wise to "boys night" activities. CV

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