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     A sample of the O’Farrell Theater’s “Wall of Fame.”

     The Mitchel Brothers ground-breaking porn flick.

     Jill Kelly

        Kobe Tai

     Nina Hartly

     Mimi Myagi

     Corrine Williams

     Okay, enough with the photos already, time for the genuine article.

     I step up to the cashier, he checks inside my paper bag for booze and bombs, I plunk down my VISA, and get the back of my hand stamped with black light ink.  This makes me “tactical,” allowing me to enter any of the above-mentioned venues, or leave the club altogether and return.  In short the club is mine...all mine, along with every luscious creature in it.

     Birthday cake, dear reader!

     I step into the wide, long hallway.  Immediately to my left is the entrance way to The Kopenhagen and the Private Cabanas.  Further down the hall on the left are the two entrances to the skin-flick cinema.  On the right side of the hallway is the entrance to The Ultra Room, a series of private rooms, and at the hallway’s far end a booth holding the snack bar and another cashier.

     Where this hallway ends you have a choice of three directions: to the left a really plush lounge with couches and armchairs, or The Green Door with stage, tables and private rooms, or to the right New York Live with stage and theater seats. 

     The club is dramatically lit with soft lighting and I can hear Shakira’s “Underneath Your Clothes” coming from the stage of New York Live; one of the dancers is stripping to this song. 

     How appropriate!

     Sprinkled among the customers wandering up and down this hallway are the dancers in string bikini tops, thong bottoms and high heels, cruising for, or talking with, the customers.  The dancers are of all races, shapes and sizes...but share one common denominator: everyone is drop-dead gorgeous with a great personality and, most importantly, approachable.  Of course it all concerns money and business...only they make it painless and actually fun.  I hesitate a moment, and merely drink in their beauty with travel-weary, admiring eyes...this part is free.

     Gee...I wonder how many calories are in this type of birthday cake, dear reader.  Talk about a kid locked up in a pastry shop!

     Now I spy an old pal and my troubles get even farther behind me.  A statuesque, smoking Eurasian stands in front of one of the private rooms, idly talking with a customer.  She’s barely twenty-three - stands five-foot-ten in clear, Lucite platform heels - and her pink bikini reveals an extraordinary 38-20-35 figure.  Her jet-black hair resembles silk and falls to the small of her back, reflecting jewels of light against clear, flawless skin.  She has a long silk chord over one shoulder, which is attached to a pocket-sized, rectangular Thai silk purse.  The purse holds a hefty wad of Jacksons, Grants and Benjamins, plus a lipstick and miniature brush - all a girl basically needs here.  She loves that practical, diminutive purse.  It was a gift from me.  Her father is Scots-Irish, her mother Filipino, and her stage name is Gia DeCarlo.

     Forgive me, dear reader, but I’ve promised the dancers I won’t use their real names.

     Gia and the customer presently laugh and shake hands.  He moves off towards The Green Door.  She turns towards me and I admire her naked, flat stomach with its perfect navel and her dancer’s long legs that go on for days.  I thank the goddess of dance her parents sank all that money into ballet training.  She checks her wristwatch, then scans the hallway, and spots me.  Gia literally lights up with a huge grin - strides gracefully up to me - and gives me a warm, semi-naked hug and cuddle.

     My God!  Does that tight, young body ever feel good!  Okay...okay...so I’m a pig.  Piggy...piggy...piggy!  So there, I admit it!  I hope you’re satisfied, dear reader.

     “Hi, Uncle Petie!” she says huskily in my ear.  “Jesus, I’m glad you could make it!  Man it’s been a long day...I really need you...I’m dying for a Thai massage.”

     She’s working a double shift today, starting at noon with the matinee, and then continuing from six to closing for the night shift.  I haven’t a clue as to how the poor kid does it.  She’s a commuter from L.A., has a boyfriend there, and crashes with a couple of dancers in the Cow Hollow.

     Gently I take her right hand and slide it down to my bulging Levi’s front pocket, and I say, “T-Tell me, little girl, is that a M-Mars Bar in my pocket?  Or am I just happy to see you?”

     Gia laughs.  She has a rich, whiskey laugh.

     Mars Bars are her favorite.

     I pull out the Mars Bar and press it into her hand, saying, “I t-thought maybe you’d be n-needing a sugar pick-me-up.”

     “You’re a superstar, Pete,” Gia replies.  “But I’ll have you know I’m not that kinda girl...I’m not easy!”

Having gotten that off her chest, she slips her other hand to my crotch, gives “Mr. Meat Puppet” a big squeeze, and adds, “Then again...it’s common knowledge around here I’ll simply do anything for a Mars Bar!”

     We both laugh until our eyes tear up.

     Finally, I say, “W-Well, buckaroo, if you’re s-serious about that massage I’m totally at your service.”

     Gia glances at her Cartier timepiece, a gift from an admirer, and frowns, “Gee, Uncle Petie, I’m very tempted.”  She looks up at me, smiles with sparkling dark eyes, and continues, “Except my dogs are barkin’...I need to get off my feet and wolf down your Mars Bar with some coffee, while I get ready for my next number.  Promise me you’ll hangout and give me a massage after I dance.”

     “G-Gia,” I reply truthfully, “g-giving you a Thai massage is all I live for.  I plan on h-hanging in here until they kick me out at closing.”

     “No bullshit?” Gia asks.

     To be honest, dear reader, that’s a commodity all the girls normally get from most of the customers...in knee-deep quantities.

     Putting down my paper bag, I place my right hand over my heart and raise my left, as if taking an oath, and state, “I s-swear on a stack of Mars Bars.”

     Sultry Gia laughs again.  I enjoy making her laugh.  I also like taking care of her and giving her pleasure.

     Picking up the paper sack, and slipping my arm inside hers, I add, “Come on, pumpkin, I’ll walk you back to the d-dressing room.”

     Arm in arm we move down the spacious hallway together, threading our way past customers and semi-nude dancers.  Reaching the wide entrance to New York Live, we make a hard right, and continue down its black carpeted back wall until we reach a heavy set of black velvet drapes hiding a recessed doorway.

     Gia gives me another humongous, semi-naked hug, and murmurs in my ear, “Don’t forget our date.”

     I reply, “Are you kidding?  I’ll be h-holding my breath until next we meet.”  Then I take a deep, noisy breath, puff out my cheeks, and hold it.

      She giggles and plants a kiss on my cheek.  Afterward she vanishes through a split in the thickly-lush drapes.  Then I hear a large, metallic door – hidden from sight on the other side - open and close behind the drapes.

     Exhaling, I step out of the draped recess and gaze at the stage.  I’m standing at the extreme right rear corner of the dark theater, behind the last row of seats, which affords me an unrestricted view of the stage.  To my pleasant surprise I discover another old pal on stage - stripping to “Underneath Your Clothes” - my sweet, pint-sized, buddy: Angel Bell.  The Goddess of strippers is being good to me this evening!

     Okay, dear reader, let’s hit the pause button again.  For the past four years I’ve been making the journey from Thailand, to San Francisco, ordinarily once every six months.  I usually spend two weeks here to play, and get in touch with my western culture.  Naturally I’ve put in my fair share of duty at the O’Farrell Theater, hence my history with Gia and Angel.  Also, for the past three days, I’ve been hanging out with them here at the club; my therapy to counteract all the medical tests and meetings with doctors.

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