L.A. Guys: Worst Strip Club Patrons. EVER.

Jan 19, 2010 • Opinion

Men come to Las Vegas from all over the world to indulge in three things: gambling, substances, and, of course, women. Naturally, any man can blow his wad on delicious bare bodies at various gentlemen’s clubs across Sin City. Believe me I know, I’m a stripper.

In this industry, a dancer experiences all kinds of men. And no, men are not all the same. As much as I try to avoid stereotypes, men from different places behave in different ways. Canadian and British guys are always gentlemen and are never broke, east coast guys are kinky and have ass fetishes, southern guys love women with curves who talk about guns, and then there are the infamous dudes from Los Angeles. Oh yes, L.A. guys. Where do I even begin?

They travel in packs varying from 5 to 15 men coming from San Diego, Orange County, and the City of Angels itself. They all wear white collared shirts with jeans, drink cranberry vodkas, and huddle together in dark corners. Most the girls that walk by the VIP booths are denied entry into their sausage fests, even though men usually come to strip clubs for girls, right? Yet, L.A. guys don’t want girls. They really want each other.

It was Saturday night and the club was packed. I entered a booth occupied by five Angelinos. I met one that looked like an Italian version of Nick Lachey. He was hot and so were his friends, but I was a little thrown off to find I was the only stripper in the VIP booth. After dancing for Nick Lachey, I looked over to find his bro giving a drunken lap dance to another male friend. They gripped each other wildly, arms around one another, and laughed while giving each other high-fives.

“You don’t want her,” one said pointing at me and speaking to Nick Lachey. “Let me give you a dance, dude. Oh my God, my dick is so hard. Feel it.”

“Naw, dude, that’s OK. I’m cool,” said Nick Lachey completely embarrassed.

“You need to get these guys out of here,” I whispered in Nick’s ear.

“Ugh, I know. They are really drunk.”

This interesting display of bromance was not the first. I started to notice a pattern among these tanned bros from SoCal. Could it be they are tired of pussy and trying to prove that they are not? Or are they so marinated in the land of plastic that real sexuality between a man and a woman is now passe? Being born and raised in Long Beach, I am concerned about the homoerotic behavior among these hairless, manicured men in the context of a club carrying female tits and ass.

Another evening, I sat and talked to two Mexicali guys from Anaheim. We secretly pitied their friend who had just married his fiancee in one of the sad little chapels on the strip.

“Yeah, my marriage is cool though,” one of the thirty-somethings said.

“How do you keep it that way?” I asked.

“Well, I like to watch her fuck,” he said.

“I’m sure you do. Every guy loves to see his girl with another girl,” I said.

“No, she doesn’t get with girls.”

“Oh, OK. So she…” I hesitated.

“I watch her fuck other…”


“Yeah, I love it.”

“Umm, OK.”

I asked him for a lap dance but he turned me down.

As I try to avoid the inevitable, I am not the only dancer witnessing this phenomenon. I hear other co-workers complain as well.

“Anything out there?” Veronica asked while I dug through my locker in the dressing room where dancers hide out.

“Well, there’s a group of six guys, didn’t you see them?” I asked.

“Ugh, those snobby motherfuckers from L.A.? They were so into rubbing each other’s elbows and drinking their cranberry vodkas, they wouldn’t even give me the time of day. I can’t stand L.A. men. Why do they even come here? They hardly ever get dances or VIPs. I swear to god if they didn’t have wedding rings on I would think they were gay.”

On another afternoon, I walked up to a group of young white boys sipping mixed drinks and conversing. I tried to sit with them, but they proceeded to give me dirty looks.

“Umm… we are talking.”

“I noticed,” I said. “But I always assume men come to strip clubs for women, not for each other.”

“Can you come back later? You are pretty but we are busy,” another white-collared asshole said. I was aghast at their rudeness.

“ARE YOU ALL FROM L.A.?!” I shouted, my face aflame.

“Ummm, yeah,” they said.

“I fucking thought so!” I exclaimed and stormed off.

Believe or not, dancers actually warn each other when SoCal is in our establishment. We are tired of being rejected, tired of “dude”, and tired of hearing about how it takes only three hours to drive to Las Vegas from L.A. It doesn’t, it takes five. But most importantly, we are tired of L.A. men acting gay.

If you’re a straight man and you live in Southern California, please be a gentlemen to Las Vegas strippers and buy a lap dance. Otherwise be true to yourself and go to Chip N’ Dales.

JJ was born in the greater Los Angeles area, where she spent much of her life when she wasn’t satisfying her wanderlust in bizarre places around the globe. Foreseeing the state’s impending economic collapse, she packed up and took off to Vegas where she now makes a killing ignoring her Master’s and grinding on laps.

Image by Cap’n Monky.