The Cave
700 N. Delaware Avenue
Thursdays 8 p.m., $10, 18+
Fridays 10 p.m., $16, 21+
Saturdays 8 p.m., 11 p.m., 21+
(215) 923-0504
"All you first-timers out there raise your hands up high!" yells the cheesy man at the mike who wears a too-tight suit and sports massive, aging muscles. Not many women raise their hands. Instinctively I know tonight is for watching my friends have fun. I light a cigarette. Two hours to go. I'm dressed like a prude beside the leopard-print-wearing, poofy-haired girls who drove in from Jersey for the occasion. They are consumers of sex, and are yet eagerly consumed by it, too. The music is bass-ic. There's a businessman whose suit pants come off with one tug before he humps The Wall Street Journal. Each dancer and each dance is the same as the men blend into one blurry melange of bulging spandex. Their thongs are turquoise, red, purple, teal, and their legs, chests and buttocks are entirely hairless--they are like huge, sweaty, gyrating seals on the stage. Then they come down to the floor and start to mingle (hug, kiss, fondle the clientele). I tip only the cocktail waiter, who brings me a Diet Coke while wearing nothing but daisy dukes. A bachelorette gets into the ($25) "hot seat" where one of the men freaks her from the front and back before paying homage to her lap. The crowd loves every second of this performance and leaves the Cave only wanting more. Good luck, girls.
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