New York’s Sapphire Strip Club, May the Joys and Wonders Never Cease
Have you ever stayed at a dumpy hotel with an attached indoor pool? You know the place. As you walk down that long, damp hallway, it smells of bleach and mildew. Bet you thought you could never smell that odor outside and in the wild? You would be wrong. Welcome to Sapphire, New York City’s “premier” gentleman’s club.
There would be many a day on our walk to work when we would avoid the bodies that jumped off the Queensboro Bridge and gingerly saunter up East 60th Street to 2nd Avenue’s horrendously congested mess of carbon monoxide and angry Middle Eastern cabbies laying on their horns. It was along this peaceful route that we would take note of nature’s wonderful bounty: weeds sprouting from broken concrete, rats gnawing through piss-covered contractor bags, broken glass sparkling in the morning sun, and that wonderfully natural aroma of Clorox bleach bubbling in the air outside Sapphire strip club.
The pungent stench stung our eyes and made our noses drip quicker than a barrel of diced onions. Imagine the fresh springs of Ireland, then replace them with the natural wonders of a toxic waste dump. The smell was glorious and a testament to extreme hard work and dedication. It must take a particularly devoted crew of undocumented Mexicans to enthusiastically spray truckloads of chlorine. Imagine the merriment and cheer as they sang together, a wonderful harmonious chorus of “Hi ho, Hi ho, it’s off to work we go” sung in Spanish, as they washed away last night’s incriminating credit card purchases, criminal activities, and debaucherous STDs.
Ah yes, Sapphire. The preferred gentleman’s club of gentlemanly gentlemen. Where bottles of middle-grade liquor start at $350 and quickly run up to the cost of a middle-class mortgage. But this is New York, home of hedge fund titans doing lines of cocaine and laughing with strippers as they throw a grandmother’s life savings into the air. To hell with the middle class; there’s nothing more fun than to watch a tattooed Russian Barbie doll stretch down from mighty stripper-heel heights to pick up $100 bills off the floor, greasing their dental-floss thongs with all sorts of sweat, juice, and who-knows-what along the way.
Yes, Sapphire is glorious and the epitome of class. The dress code is business casual. So no need to remove that Patagonia fleece for a dinner jacket. The gracious and saintly proprietors know that it’s best to leave the finance bros in their most comfortable outfits, all the better for them to drop their guard as another roofie is slipped into their drink as they traipse to the champagne room to blow their year-end bonuses. For the ladies, more class is expected. This is “the place to display your favorite dress, though some women do choose to dress a bit more casually,” they say without a hint of irony.
Hungry? As with all great establishments known for drugging their guests and forcing teenagers to perform sex acts, visitors have the option to feast on the finest Costco steaks from Primal Steakhouse. Enjoy raw oysters alongside raw tacos, and perhaps more. Tip Gino a few extra and he’ll make sure it’s more than your stomach that jiggles. And as you sit back to relax with a thong-clad performer in your face, you’ll think to yourself, “I’ve finally arrived,” moments before handing over your credit card, taking a sip from your drug-laced cocktail, and blacking out.
Welcome to New York.
