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Girls there could get fully nude an appealing enticement for the Americans who had to endure the dental-floss-thong restrictions in their own country. Just across the river from Detroit, it was known colloquially as the “Windsor Ballet”. Cheetah’s was a strip club in Windsor, Ontario. If you want your bracelet back, come and get it.” (Damn booze.) She said, “I work at Cheetah’s. No amount of resistance to the idea on my part seemed to make a dash of difference. She then removed an ornate silver bracelet from my arm and put it on her own, much to my dismay. In conversation, she told me, “I’m crazy! All my friends say I’m the craziest!” Now, although within a certain subgroup of men, this WOULD be an appealing selling point, and although with a back-full of scars, blue dreadlocks, and war-paint, I clearly seemed to fit that bill of sale, I was clearly not the droid she was looking for. This girl did not appear to be the type to ever have to purchase her own drinks, and so it was obvious that these were the maples she’d been tapping for sap all night.īefore long, I was informed that she was an exotic dancer and that the stooges were clients of hers who were her patrons for the night. As we talked, or, better said- as SHE talked and bombastically expressed her intentions with much arm waving, I became keenly aware that at arms length there were 3 well-dressed men giving me the hairy eye and keeping close tabs on what appeared to be the object of their investment for the evening. She was very definitely intoxicated, and eager to make my acquaintance. One evening, while drinking what they called a “Gay Cowboy” at the bar (Sprite and Grenadine), a young, firm, energetic girl roared up into my personal space. Most nights there, after my performances, I would float through the club, shirtless and occasionally still bleeding, in a Casper-like hope that someone would want to talk to me and possibly be my friend. Most nights, the cement slab would shatter into a million tiny pieces (which, upon standing up, would invariably fall straight down into my leather pants), but on occasion she’d hit the block without quite enough force and a large chunk would fly up into my face. At that exact moment, they’d fire off a sound cannon and cut the lights, signifying the end of our act. Then we’d have a lovely assistant pop a balloon on the nails, Betty would place a cinder block on my chest, and then smash it with a 15 lb sledgehammer. In one of my acts, I would carry out a bed of nails for the audience to feel and verify while Brutal Betty would berate the audience from the stage. The drag queens had several high-powered dance numbers every night, complete with all the glitter, glam, sham, and exploding confetti cannons one would wish for in a Brazilian Carnivale parade.