So I was at home enjoying a day off from the barbecue joint when my hotline rang. It was a lady friend of mine calling to extend a last minute invite to a night of hot chicks a-go-go, the first of a weekly party series called Roadkill Nights at Lucky 13 (in Brooklyn on 13th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues), a not-too-far away watering hole that has my respect for maintaining an exceptional jukebox fueled entirely by bands like Joan Jett & the Blackhearts. The Lunachicks, Fear, the Reverend Horton Heat, Nina Hagen, the Cramps, the Misfits, Suicidal Tendencies, the Sex Pistols, and of course my boys the Damned. You know, Bunche music. So how could I say no?
I donned my trusty coonskin cap and leather trench coat and ventured to Lucky 13, making it in just before the eleven o’clock start time. I was greeted by the event’s host, the refreshingly bizarre Scotty the Blue Bunny, a tall John Cleese-esque queen in six-inch heels and a skin-tight bunny suit that left nothing to the imagination; I last saw the guy at a friend’s performance in lower Manhattan and he was wearing a spectacular t-shirt that depicted a silhouette of one man being forcefully buttfucked by another, next to a logo that proclaimed, “I’d rather be cornholing.” Scotty happily welcomed me to the proceedings, and promptly left to work the other patrons.
As Scotty bunnyhopped away I was once more taken in by the divey atmosphere; a combination of rock ‘n’ roll posters, monster and horror memorabilia, signed photos of Elvira and Sid Haig, various implements of destruction like a Grim reaper-style scythe, an inspired portrait of Pope John Paul II with red eyes and horns sprouting from his red-beanied pate, and the inevitable photo of Bettie Page in her harem girl garb, her raven tresses cascading over her upraised hands past her untamed face. Once again, I marveled at how it feels like something I would have crafted for my own amusement if I had a decent-sized basement. And, fuck, how I want to steal those framed Coop lithographs!
I then was stunned by one of the performers, a lissome lass who has made me harder than Sanskrit algebra since the moment I met her nearly a year ago, bedecked in a smokin’ hot vinyl nurse’s outfit accented with black, stilettoed “fuck me” super-heroine boots, and the outfit was so scandalously short that my eyes discretely scanned for her nether-fur (which was sadly obscured by her cherry red panties). Her eyes sparkled when she saw me, and she ran over to give me a kiss and thank me for showing up. What, like I was gonna miss seeing a bunch of beautiful women in skimpy outfits shakin’ their goodness and pole dancing to music that I enjoy?
Her raw enthusiasm for the art of the terpsichorean gene-spliced with the inspiration of a stiff trouser trout
was clearly written across her face; before me stood a woman who embraced her own non-augmented female excellence and was not afraid to share it with the world. Thank you, Nursey. Thank you oh so much!
Presently this ecdysian avatar mounted the small go-go platform and lost herself to the rhythmic world within her head, her every luscious millimeter swiveling to the seductive tones put forth by the very talented DJ Hi-Speed Chase, and I must admit that very unchaste thoughts filled my head. Thankfully for my growing urge to “be alone for a while,” Nursey was soon replaced by the mighty Peekaboo Pointe, a tasty and tastefully tattooed brunette in a flapper bob and black bikini — with high-heeled Mary Janes!!! — who was hot as a motherfucker, but doesn’t inspire me the way that the Naughty Nurse did, but that is in no way a slight on her pulchritude or abilities; it’s simply a matter of taste, but I have to say that Miss Pointe does the splay-legged pole slide with a weightless aplomb that gives a rigid middle finger to the concept of gravity. Sure, she’s a hot lady splaying herself on a pole, but her professionalism and athletic style was what fascinated me. I’ll take pictures of her human scissors routine next time I’m there.
Then the show proper began, and Scotty did his emcee thing. The crowd sat riveted to the words of this towering azure lepus, and they smoldered in anticipation of the delights to come. Miss Pointe soon returned in a fetching 1920’s black number and seductively strolled about the pole that ran from the ceiling to the bar top, all eyes gazing at her lithe form with barely contained wonder; here was a slinky cat-woman whose undulations recalled the function of a spinning hypno-wheel, her every dip and pout fixing the observer like one of Medusa’s victims. Only in a good way. She soon ended up down to only her panties and a pair of very happy tasseled pasties, which she certainly knew how to operate, nearly causing whiplash in the onlookers, including yours truly.
After a brief pause, out strolled “the Officer,” a toothsome beauty in a cop suit with hot pants and a baton who made me long for an immediate felony collaring that would get me next to her lips that promised untold admonitions for my naughty ways. She mounted the platform, produced a bullhorn and announced, “If you see something, say something!!!”
Well, let me tell you that I saw something delicious, and I said, “God DAMN!!!” several times during her routine.
This authoritarian Aphrodite soon took to the pole, losing her jacket and revealing her lovely sweater-goblins, both of which had their suckleable bits obscured by a pair of black tape x’es. This image was both hot and fierce, and clearly appreciated by patrons other than myself. And all too soon, it ended.
The rest of the evening consisted of all sorts of naughty hijinx, all overseen by a fierce, brace-faced, fire-breathing Joan Jett/Chrissie Hynde hybrid named Taryn. So I humbly suggest that you check out Roadkill Mondays, especially if you need a dose of the naughty along with $3.00 shots of tequila all night long. TRUST YER BUNCHE!!!