Here’s the story of how I ended up at my first strip club in San Francisco.
Many years ago, a trip home from Boston to San Francisco took me over 14 hours. I missed the flight, and then they routed me through Chicago O’Hare, where I spent 7 hours sitting on linoleum. By the time I was sitting on the SFO AirTrain trying to get to BART, I was pretty pissed off. There were a bunch of kids running around the train, tripping over my luggage, being brats. This tall guy in a slick suit noticed my exasperation and offered to move over. He attempted to make some small talk and I replied tersely “yeah yeah, I live in the city.” At the next stop, he said “well, I would offer you a ride in my rental car, but I’m sure you would much rather take BART.”
Forget about not talking to strangers, I joyfully allowed this alleged hedge fund manager on a business trip to give me a ride home. As we approached San Francisco, he insisted that he needed a dinner partner and, not to worry, it was on the expense account. Well, how could I pass that up? He was a nice chap who didn’t drink but happily paid for my own wine guzzling. The night continued on, we were having fun in a platonic sort of way, and that’s how we ended up at Mitchell Brothers.
Photo courtesy of Donnaphoto/Flickr
Mitchell Brothers is no Sapphire in Las Vegas; but, it’s an institution in San Francisco and stayed open for business despite one brother murdering the other in 1991. My new sugar daddy and I sat in the front row next to a pack of dudes who all promptly passed out. I felt bad for the dancers, working hard, trying to be seductive for a bunch of blacked out frat guys. We enjoyed ourselves, but then we got a little bored and called it a night.
The only other strip club I’ve visited in San Francisco was Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club in North Beach. A girlfriend and I thought it would be a hoot to drag our boyfriends there after a boozy dinner at Tommaso’s. Our boyfriends each bought us lap dances, but the girl my guy selected for me was disappointing. I didn’t like her smell or her lack of curves. I guess he didn’t understand my type. How could he? He wasn’t my type either.
Since I’m certainly no expert on this topic, check out 7×7’s very comprehensive guide to San Francisco’s strip clubs. The author gives a behind-the-scenes look at the private back rooms, all-you-can-eat buffets, and various vibes of our sexy local stripping haunts including our ex-mayor’s favorite, Gold Club.
Feature image courtesy of 7×7.com