Saturday, February 4, 12:00 a.m. "I feel like dancing!" my girlfriend Alex suggestively says. Say no more! From the Hard Rock, it's a just a three-minute stroll down Paradise, past Hamburger Mary's and a few sketchy motels that rent by the minute, to Gipsy, an "alternative" nightclub.
Giddy from our pre-game cocktails, Alex, Liberty and I glide with what we believe to be grace through the doors, past the bouncers, past the coat check, and thankfully past the cashier; there is no cover on Fabulous! Saturdays. Manageably small, dark, and with a thin layer of grime generated by years of sweaty dance parties, spilled beer and body glitter, the crowd is 97 percent men—with our threesome making up the balance.
No, the shirts-optional dress code does not extend to us.
Sometimes, it's gotta be just the girls. Ask any woman: What is the best place for a couple of hot chicks to ogle some even hotter male bodies and enjoy a night of drinking, dancing and bonding without being pawed, drooled upon or pressured to hook up. In Vegas, there are two options: a male revue show or a gay club. In both, the female form is welcomed and even celebrated. Body paint, feather boas, booty shorts, and baby oil—those are just some things I encounter on my night out at Gipsy with the ladies.
I am admittedly and proudly one of the lot my college professor-friend Peter affectionately referred to as "fag hags." There's a sprinkling of us hags here tonight, along with our generous sponsors. I spent much of college at a nightclub in Ithaca, New York, called the Common Ground, grooving to standards like the Bloodhound Gang's "The Bad Touch" and Barry Harris' "Dive in the Pool." Not too far off, DJ Mikey Swift is going genre by genre, hitting all the points. I'm glad to hear that 20 Fingers' "Short Dick Man" is still in rotation. He spins house-y remixes of Kelly Clarkson's "Since U Been Gone," the Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams" and Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl." Swift also nonchalantly shows off his scratching skills during Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Sweet Home Alabama," and then I date myself, squealing loudly at the first notes of Tiffany's innocent version of "I Think We're Alone Now."
Wilted, we retire to the bar for bevies and the regulars reclaim the stage. It's both amusing and frustrating, trying to get the ripped, young bartenders to break eye contact with the ripped, young patrons long enough for us to order drinks; this is one time when cleavage does no good.
The DJ booth, once a dark hole in the wall, has been wisely thrust to center stage with go-go boxes on either side, upon which a beefy jock and bowl-cut superhero are showing us just how much they like this song. Literally hanging from the low rafters, one rocks leopard booty shorts while the other sports a Playgirl bunny just to the right of his ... center. Leave it to Liberty to start hitting on the dancers. Somehow, she manages to find the one straight guy and essentially outs him. They enjoy a little tete-a-peck: him squatting down to chat, her beaming up at him, him looking down her blouse.
We're halfway down the street, dragging Liberty by her elbows, when we finally get it out of her that he said he was going to meet her at the bar for a drink. Spinning on our heels and possibly lifting her off the ground, we are now leading her back in to see where-oh-where this little folie a deux may lead, sopping up gooey details like the desperate housewives we most certainly are. I feel guilty for just a second before flashing my stamp and a smile at the bewildered bouncer and shoving my friend back into the smoky cave to collect her boy-treasure.
Liberty and her private dancer moon for a few moments while Alex and I chaperone close, next to a chicken hawk dragging slowly on his cigarette as he watches the kids on the dance floor get wild on each other. As the night wears down to a nub—and when it becomes apparent that way too many people are noticing this go-go go after a female—I begin to fear a catfight. We tear Liberty away and run back down the street a second time, high on life, vodka and our misadventure. I think she may have even gotten his phone number. Fabulous!
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at
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