This article was published on But if they did …. An obscenely thin girl who looks like linguine in high heels smiles at me with jagged teeth. Not that I blame her. Is it seedy because someone maybe forgot to vacuum, or because the women are naked?
More strip clubs within 60 miles of rancho cordova
A mishmash of leather and upholstered chairs surround three stages. The feng shui includes mirrors and blazing white lights and s in English and Spanish reminding you to tip the dancers. Three friends accompany me, and I comment to them about this skinny stripper and her skyscraper heels. They must be, like, 6 inches tall. There you go.
She high-wire dances in those 9-inchers on the stage, decent by only a threadbare G-string. After a while, she falls to her knees right in front of me, flashes those teeth, then reaches to my face and pulls the glasses off my nose. Folds them up, breathes on and fogs up the lenses. Never seen that move before. Keep with me here. Hating on the holiday is banal, but indulge me: the prix-fixe dinners even chefs hate, Shari and her damn berries, Hallmark, having to landscape your genital fuzz in hopes of saucy Hollywood coitus which never goes down, because you stuffed yourself with too much rib-eye and buttercream.
And then, for dessert, a night of strip-club hopping in beautiful industrial suburbia. I like to tell a story about eating dinner at Spaghetti Factory with my family. This was maybe 20 years ago. I blurted out the F-word, or something, in front of my mom.
Planning a trip to sacramento?
This set her off, and she grabbed the remaining bread on the table, cocked her arm and chucked it at me. But she airmailed it. Anyway, she missed and hit an older man with a comb-over in the back of the head. My girlfriend hears this story and agrees to return to the scene of the crime. It will be an ironic date night at Spag, as they call it. Saturday night in Rancho Cordova—and maybe someone will toss a loaf? It takes a few minutes of maze to land a parking spot at Nimbus Winery, which houses the Spaghetti Factory in Rancho.
Waiting area is busier than a Kaiser emergency room. There are three hostesses, and I believe it, because a trio seems insufficient to handle the crowd. None of the hostesses look older than 21, but the bartender also IDs my girlfriend, so age is a funky beast at Spag.
The bar top is sticky with years of syrupy drinks. I order the libation of choice of my 7-year-old self, a Shirley Temple, no ID needed. A bronze lamp with a red-velvet shade lights our conversation. I ask my girlfriend if the ambience sets a romantic mood. A quick food-critic rundown of the night: an appetizer, Twinkie-sized slabs of garlicky cheese bread surrounding a lukewarm dipping bowl of marinara, scares. Sadly, no one shot-puts the too-hot-to-handle bread loaf.
The flagship spaghetti is all about dense noodles that could sink a canoe.
Flush your traditional valentine’s day, this writer at strip clubs and the old spaghetti factory
The red sauce has the runs. And the mizithra comes with the promise of writing chops—the menu says Homer noshed on the brown butter and cheese pasta while busting out the Iliad —yet the pasta proffers no such inspiration for this writer. The busboy, however, has a cold—coughing into his shoulder, using his fingers to scrape scum from a fork.
We fear the measles. My girlfriend points out that the couple in the booth next to us are seated side by side.
Kind of. I agree that the no-expectations evening out and sans a damn movie! A woman who goes by the name Thor raises her eyebrow at me, like Skyler would to Walter White. The pissed-off Skyler. Thor is a blonde in a T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts.
Can we hang out? Eventually, Thor at least pretends to believe me. There are names written on it in blue pen: Trinity, Alexandria, Cherry and two-dozen other monikers for the strippers working on a recent weekday night. What does that mean? And parents used to freak out about Madonna. But I digress: If Usher says strip clubs are innocuous, what could possibly go wrong? Why do I need to be protected?
Not helpful. She jokes that I should call her Chocolate Thunder and her friend, who just walked over, Chiquita Banana, instead of their real names. Chiquita is more casual. And some guys, you want to stuff them in your vagina. The dancers are always trying to squeeze money out of you. The Rancho lap-dance triptych, were it a Hieronymus Bosch painting.
My girlfriend passes in favor of a night at home with Netflix. Two-dozen men slouch in teal and orchid chairs that look like they were upholstered by Stevie Wonder. A mirror ball illuminates the room. I highly recommend reading strip-club Yelp reviews.
Like all local clubs, the girls disrobe completely when performing. That means vagina. One dancer tells me that they pay a monthly fee to work at the club, just like a hairstylist rents out a chair at a salon. Centerfolds is the only t in town where strippers pay to play, she says. A dancer named Malia slips out onto the stage in 8-inch heels. I tell her about my reporter thing.
She then proceeds to push her breasts into my face as Centerfolds strip club sacramento. And then she puts her hands up her shirt. The groping of Allison continues all night long. Allison insists we leave immediately. None of this will ever manifest on Instagram, sadly, because smartphones are against the rules at all clubs. At least in Vegas. Not here in Sacramento. They also offer vaporizer hookah pipes; we smoke the Jolly Rancher flavor. A something boy wearing only blue boxers is tied to a chair while a parade of dancers have their way with him. The birthday boy is all smiles as a procession of breasts and ass smash into his face, which just might be permanently stuck with a grin after tonight.
That is, until he has to climb a pole unusually high at this club, at least 13 feet to retrieve his pants, which the strippers affixed to the ceiling. The Above the Fray founder is one of Sacramento's top social media experts, but his biggest challenge might be crafting his online image.
Published on Give it up for five local seniors who never give up—or even take it easy, for that matter. Brittany Maynard's high-profile death may help usher in a right-to-die option for terminally ill patients in the Golden State. Sacramento More Local Stories » Feature Story Thomas Dodson is the social networker The Above the Fray founder is one of Sacramento's top social media experts, but his biggest challenge might be crafting his online image.
Masters of the third act Give it up for five local seniors who never give up—or even take it easy, for that matter. How to die in California Brittany Maynard's high-profile death may help usher in a right-to-die option for terminally ill patients in the Golden State. All rights reserved.
Visit us at our new location.