 Don’t
got a hot date for tonight? No gallery openings to pillage for free
food and booze? Has the vaunted San Miguel nightlife begun to shrink
a bit for you lately? Fear not, there is a little-known yet promising
alternative. A few months ago, “Alter Ego”, a female
striptease club, opened in San Miguel to warm reception and quiet
review. Due to local municipal laws, you won’t see any newspaper
ads, gigantic highway-side billboards, or hear radio spots heralding
its triumphant arrival. But if you climb into any taxi and order
the driver, “Llevame al table”, you’ll be quickly
whisked away to a virtual pleasure palace, only a scant 10 minute
drive from El Centro.
On an average weekend night, you’ll be charged a cover of
50 pesos at the door. But the thrifty strip-clubber will quickly
deduce that Wednesday nights are the preferred night out, when there
is no cover, and only a minimum beverage consumption of 80 pesos
per person. Roll in with your crew of three or four scalawags and
order yourselves a bottle of their reasonably priced, top-shelf
liquor and you’re set for the night. And once you’ve
been seated by your waiter at your chosen table (mid-week also has
the advantage of being less crowded than late-week) and ordered
your libations—let the hedonism begin.
The club appears to be a thinly carpeted converted warehouse space,
with a large oblong stage in the middle of the building, surrounded
by many small tables and chairs. A Dj spins popular (and sometimes
surprisingly unexpected) jams over the sound system, and you might
appreciate the departure from such perennial hits as AC/DC’s
“You Shook Me All Night Long”, Motley Crue’s “Girls,
Girls, Girls” and Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar
On Me”. The music is only ever so briefly interrupted by the
occasional PA call for one of the tardy ladies: “Tercera llamada!
Tercera llamada! Tercera llamada para Am-berrrrrrr!…”
And seven times out of ten, a firm yet supple, 20-something-year-old,
rural Mexican hottie (no stretch marks! no tattoos!) will eventually
strut out of the dressing room—fully clothed—and man
her anointed position upon center stage, demanding the attention
of most straying eyes.
The immediate difference I noticed between this and North American
titty-bars, was that most of these girls could actually dance. Unlike
some clubs that tout their “professional” dancers, here
you don’t pause and wonder if the girl on stage will be covering
the 5:00 am shift at the Denny’s down the street. For nothing
is sadder and more depraved than the overweight and out-of-step
stripper who looks as if she was denied the job as 3rd understudy
on the Riverdance tour. Nor will you thankfully ever see the popular
hyper-violent-epileptic-seizure-booty, which has become such a staple
in some acts. But you will certainly catch the ever present and
familiar scent of “Eau de Coochie”, which must be bottled
and distributed by the same multi-national cosmetics conglomerate
and sold in stripper merchandise catalogs the world-over.
Each girl’s well-choreographed 15-minute routine ends with
her in glorious full nakedness and usually chewing at the scant
scenery (two long metal poles and maybe a folding chair) as she
teases, solicits and receives adulation from her usually captive
audience. (My only complaint is that the girls don’t seem
to appear quite as frequently as they could, and one is too often
left staring at an empty stage. A minor detail that could easily
be corrected.) Men will generally root and applaud in good-natured
appreciation for a satisfying performance, but will rarely approach
the stage. For if there is perhaps only one thing sadder than that
sagging stripper with one club foot, it’s the middle-aged,
beer-bellied, open-shirted, hairy-stomached, balding, fan-boy who
volunteers himself to become a part of your show, by laying himself
crucified upon the stage as he predictably awaits for the stripper
to come by and collect the chump change from his mouth with her
breasts. There is none of that here, and it’s a real credit
to the club’s dignified ambience.
 Sipping
quietly at your drinks, you and your party will find yourselves
vigorously and thoroughly attended to by the club’s courteous
and persistent wait staff. And not too long after, a waitress will
come by, holding what appears to be carnival tickets. She won’t
guess your weight, but for 60 pesos she’ll bust out the loveliest
lady of your choice, for an up-close and personal table dance, usually
lasting the duration of one song. Here was the second major difference
I saw between this relatively classy establishment and the typical
North American cheese-ball clubs: no “dirty” money ever
exchanges hands directly between you and the strippers. There is
always a third party monitoring and dealing with all financial matters.
Kind of like the deli cashier at Gigante. And once you’ve
bought your golden ticket, it’s as if a wondrous goddess appears
magically out of thin air (and of her own consenting accord) to
dance for you and your droogs. Brings a whole new level of delusion
to the fantasy. The girls can be quite affectionate, and may even
stick around to flirt or chat, if you care to buy them drinks at
80 pesos a pop.
The third, and perhaps most poignant contrast between Mexican and
lame-ass North American strip joints is Mexico’s proud and
infamous hands-on approach. To Mexico’s credit, they’ve
truly kept strip-clubbing a full-contact sport. Most strip clubs
in the US and Canada will sick the hounds on you before the palm
of your sweaty hand has left her well-vaselined butt cheek. But
for this, and many other reasons, we thankfully do not live in Gringolandia.
And the girls here are quite tolerant to sticky fingers, as long
as they don’t roam too far or begin spelunking. And for the
more timid gentleman, who seeks the intimacy and TLC of one-on-one
interaction, there’s always the “private” table
dance. For 120 pesos you’ll be led by the lady of your choice
to a backroom where you’ll be the center of her attention
and all her worldly desires—for one song. So better make it
a good one. I lobbied hard for Iron Butterfly’s "Inagodavida"
(clocking in at a whopping 17 minutes) but was sadly informed that
the Dj did not take requests.
So if you’re searching for an escape from the usual humdrum—and
looking to invest in some action that may actually yield the results
you desire—I fully recommend looking no further than the only
legitimate strip club in town. But only bring as much dough as you’re
willing to drop, because you’ll wind up blowing it all. |
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