22nd Avenue Station Is the Best Titty Bar in Mpls.

And that's saying a lot, since I'd wager we've got more titty bars per capita than any other city (Let's define "titty bar" as any establishment which regularly features nude or topless women for entertainment purposes; the organic grocery doesn't count, even though lactating exhibitionists are always whipping out their tits in the Kashi aisle. Sorry ladies; you are turning me on and I refuse to stop sexualizing your hot, engorged funbags. Oink!)

The total population of Minneapolis hovers anemically around 400,000, and there are at least twelve titty bars here--and that's not even counting several clubs in Saint Paul. In fact, I'm almost positive there are more titty bars in Minneapolis than there are in Chicago, and Chicago has nearly three million people. It's utterly senseless. It's easier to get a handjob here than it is to get a half-skim latte. I guess the sheer volume of overtanned flesh available for purchase is kind of cool, but it's also overwhelming. How does one decide where to spend their hard-earned $15?*

*Please bring more than $15 to a strip club.

Anyway, on Saturday evening Jon and I got some prime rib at a very old school joint where seniors and their supersenior parents nurse Sidecars at the bar. Northeast Minneapolis is excellent for such places. Guts bloated, we set out in search of a different kind of choice cut. (Oink squared! I'm on a roll today in terms of chick-on-chick sexism.)

The Station is very unassuming for a titty bar. In fact, the ladies pacing the stage seem to be a mere distraction from the important business of drinking. Half the place is an average Nordeast bar: beer, a pulltab booth, weekly meat raffles advertised on plastic banners. The other half is an endearingly unglamorous runway-style stage with a comically short pole attached to the low ceiling. The dancers work in shifts, three at a time (they split their time between the Station and a couple of other bars.) Lots of folks are there solely to drink and socialize; it's their neighborhood bar and the naked tits are just gravy.

The best part about this bar-with-benefits arrangement is that it doesn't feel awkward to ogle the girls or even request a casual private dance. The strippers are a pleasant diversion, like pinball.

The girls don't pay a house fee. You heard me. They get paid to work, rather than the inverse. As such, they don't have to hustle for lap dances and the environment is entirely depressurized. That alone is reason for me to go to the Station every weekend and get an eyeful of areola.

And the girls? Hot. They're mostly mature types, girls who have had enough of the hard hustle and just want to be treated fairly and paid for their trouble. I got molested by a couple of sleepy-eyed vixens who massaged my pussy through my jeans and sucked my nipples (under the shirt, no less!) for a mere $4 tip. (I can't promise such royal treatment to male customers, alas. Chicks always get the most mileage.)

I also got "recognized." That's the #1 sign of an ace stripper...she reads the fuckin' Pussy Ranch.