Private Dancer on Trabue Road holds a special place in my heart as the first and, to date, also the last strip club I visited. None of which would matter much except that in between, it also established itself as my favorite ever strip club. Somehow this place struck that magical balance where it was neither too high class nor too trashy, just a decent, safe, unpretentious place with a nice atmosphere. And, oh yeah, I mean let’s get real, here: the girls also happened to get totally nude.
It only initially appeals on my radar second-hand. Following a brutal Saturday night waiting tables, I’m so fried I drive straight home and head to bed. So naturally this would be the night where Alan and Snoop decide to barge in at some ungodly hour, obviously hammered. Just as it’s obvious they only swung through here to see what I might be up to, therefore I’m happy to have barricaded myself in bed prior to their arrival. They shoot some firecrackers off out our back kitchen window, and then leave again about five minutes later.
Following their thunderous cameo, I’m unable to fall back asleep, and drift up to the third floor to watch TV. Am stretched out on the couch with The Godfather playing when Alan returns somewhere in the neighborhood of 4am, quite intoxicated.
“Dude, we just hit this awesome titty bar out on Trabue Road, it’s called the Private Dancer,” he says.
“Do they get totally nude?” I ask.
“Totally,” Alan replies, emphatically.
“Dude, we need to hit that sometime…”
“Yeah,” he says, “I mean, the girls were decent, they weren’t that great, obviously, but it only cost like seven bucks to get in and they looked pretty good. This one was picking dollar bills up with her pussy, too.”
When Damon’s birthday arrives a few nights later, it only seems natural to include this place as but one pit stop in our tour of the city. It certainly helps that his girlfriend was supposed to drive down for the occasion, but blew him off for some other party. I have actually somehow never been to a strip club before, primarily because I’m pretty sure in advance it’s going to be exactly what it is: something entertaining to do with the fellows every once in a great while, but nothing all that mind-blowing. Something exciting is far more likely to occur in your average bar than it is in a strip club.
After a quick pit stop and tune-up at Woody’s, for a couple of five-for-$5 buckets, shots of Jim Beam for some of the guys, the four of us continue west across this uncharted land. Upon arrival, we pay our $7 admission charges, and grab four consecutive seats abutting one side of the dancers’ truncated runway. By the time we leave here, only Paul remains ever so slightly unimpressed, although for him I suspect this is more adopted stance than authentic worldview. He will for example later admit to at least finding this taller redhead chick pretty attractive. And out of the four women in circulation here, one is an authentically busted up older lady who should probably gracefully fade from this circuit. Yet even she is borderline, the way us other three guys see it, and anyway the remaining girls are all pretty hot.
We grab four adjacent seats directly in front of their truncated runway. As a series of loud rock jams with decent dance grooves are piped in above – there’s no evident DJ here to narrate and soundtrack the action, at least not tonight – the first girl emerges, and it’s somebody I recognize. She’s a short, curly haired, peroxide crafted blonde with gigantic tits, and has been hanging out at Maxwell’s just about every time we’ve gone there. Her legs are kind of flabby, yet she has a cute face, as well as this neat trick in her repertoire involving those massive floppy breasts. She scoops one into her mouth and sucks on it a while, gyrating to the music throughout, before repeating this motion with the other. Then, directly in front of us, pulls off some fairly impressive acrobatics while removing what little clothing remains. In even our wildest dreams observing her at Maxwell’s, if ever even thinking about this girl, it’s unlikely any of us seriously expected to see observe this much of her body in such intimate and up close fashion. Like how her nether regions are shaved completely bare, thrust triumphantly in the air for all the world to see – or us ten or twelve paying customers, anyway.
Of the girls we glimpse tonight, I like her the most. After two or three songs, she throws on a few pieces of her skimpy outfit and parades the room for tips. She’s the only one who actually opens up her panties from the front, encouraging you to stick your hand in there, so long as it’s holding a dollar bill or more which you then deposit. And don’t try anything funny, it goes without saying.
Up next is the tall redhead, who is slightly older than us and the hottest of the bunch. She is a flawless professional and moves the best, flirts the best. Her greatest sequence is stopping directly in front of you, with a playful wink before she bends over in one swift, smooth motion, bringing her ass and pussy lips to within inches of your face. In the name of full reportage, I should mention that her clit is pierced, too.
If this sounds sexy, it is, sort of, although having her back at the house to yourself would surely increase that factor by a thousand. Mostly it’s just something kind of fun – and funny – to do with the fellows. Still, atmosphere is everything, and I like the middle ground Private Dancer here occupies in the class department. Nonetheless, Damon can’t stop laughing, which he admits is usually what happens at these strip clubs. Seated to his direct left, I am caught up in the wake of that vibe, too, although wondering what impact Alan has on the comedy parade, and if he was always present for previous outings. Occupying the last chair to the right, he keeps glancing over at us and issuing the sort of deadpan, play-by-play narration you might expect from a televised golf tournament, or competitive dog grooming show.
“That was a Kodak moment,” he drily intones, smirking over at us, after one deft maneuver. During another, he’s asking the girl, conversationally as she dances near him, “what time do you get off?”
Our tall goddess with reddish brown hair indicates that I should set a dollar on the runway, and I do precisely this, as she squats down and grabs it with her ass cheeks alone. As she then works the room for tips, dancer number three takes the stage, the aforementioned, slightly ugly and past her prime older woman, followed by this short haired brunette. The latter has a great body and really knows how to dance, although her face is kind of messed up, too, which ruins things a fair bit. And unlike the blonde from Maxwell’s, these other three, as they patrol this sparsely populated room for additional dollars if not lap dances, will only let you either stick the bill in the side strap of their panties, or in one instance, the top of her stockings.
When the blonde emerges onstage again, we determine this foursome must be the rotation for the night, and decide to split following her and then the redhead’s encore. With this final viewing, the voluptuous ginger picks Alan for her ass cheek retrieval stunt, and he obliges. Although this leads to the legendary parting shot, one which finds even her breaking out a genuinely amused laugh, as she collects a tip from me, Damon, and Paul.
“Sorry,” Alan apologizes, “you picked up my last dollar with your ass.”
“That’s okay!” she says, giggling as she walks away.
We take off, but not before checking out the attached adult video and book store one door over. This is somewhat of a brilliant idea, and it’s surprising you don’t see it more often. The birthday boy purchases a few discounted magazines, and then we head home, figuring our night, if well spent and cramming in enough adventures for three, is pretty much over.
I would describe this as a fairly typical night at Private Dancer, as the years roll and some of us return here every so often. At some point, Ohio law concerning strip clubs changed to where you are now able to bring your own alcohol here, as strange as that sounds, and this only served to enhance the experience. They charge you a little bit to store your drinks behind the bar, and then you also pay for every one retrieved from the bar, if I remember correctly.
Whatever the case, this place is still around. And while the reviews online look a little brutal, it’s helpful sometimes to remember that usually only the most fired up people post one, concerning either extremely good or extremely bad experiences. Whereas that seems a highly unlikely occurrence here – you pretty much know what you’re getting at Private Dancer, which is a thoroughly average time. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Granted, it’s been about a decade since I have ventured inside these doors, so maybe things have changed. But I have a sneaking suspicion – call it hope – that they are exactly as they’ve always been.
