Sex and the City

The fruits of skipping class: watching strippers bare it all at Flash dancers
photo: Staci Schwartz

When I'm not skateboarding down the halls of the Voice with my sunglasses on, doing bumps in the bathroom, or pounding pud at home, you can find me pounding pavement in search of the city's best s-e-x offerings. In honor of this, the new semester, and the knowledge so proudly promulgated in your hallowed halls of academia, I'll pass on what I've learned. But I won't front on you back-to-schoolers: My straight-male (white, too!) tastes twine with those of other Guys. That disclosed, this guide's meant for anyone who's into porn, online personals, eating out, or nudie bars—and by eating out, I mean food. Everybody loves food!

If you're a non-Guy taking this essay with a grain of salt, please note that while Toys in Babeland traffics exclusively in authentically lesbian and explicitly woman-oriented pornos, the shops I frequent offer selections and discounts large enough to please many women and most het or gay men. Kisma Video (630 Eighth Avenue, 354-1826) is the best skin-flick store on a Times Square-area block stuffed with them. They have a six-foot-high set of shelves devoted to new releases, serving as a snapshot of new trends while saving regulars browsing time. But since browsing can be one of porn shopping's most exciting aspects, you'll also find well-organized chunks of space dedicated to a wide variety of interests and fetishes, from large women (We Be Humpin' Hippos Part 2) to Japanese cartoon Hentai (He Loved Brownies . . . So He Married an Elf).

The average cost of these selections—$20 to $25—can wallop a student's wallet. Those without trust funds are advised to head for the $9.95 section, where you can find Cheerleaders Love Black Cock, The 69th Sense, and seven-hour-long vids like Licking It Clean and In the Ladies Room. Better yet, go to the $3.95 corner for Golden Girls, Lips to Suck Dick, or Deep Impact. If you're an NYU or New School student, visit Video 206 (206 East 14th Street, second floor, 917-534-0377) for their similarly broad selection of popular, mid- to high-quality series and fetish flicks. Two things set 206 apart. They carry a ton of four-hour-long vids for $9.95 (Lick Me on the Potty; What Daddy Doesn't Know), and provide viewing booths in the back, for those whose roommates never go out. Or for those who savor giving jizz-moppers extra work.

Of course, since most dorms provide high-speed Internet access, you probably mop your own jizz off of keyboards. Which begs the question: Why not search online for someone to have actual intercourse with? Yes, personals are for losers. But when was the last time you got laid? Spend two minutes signing up for a membership, post a profile, and check out all the wannabe yuppies. You'll either get off peeping the pics, or want to off yourself. If it's the former, one "credit" buys you the opportunity to make contact. Among the generic preferences stated and saucy-but-not-too-saucy flirts, I found these depressingly typical: "Best (or worst) lie I've ever told: hard to say, i work in public relations"; and, under the heading "Why you should get to know me": "I have a good heart protected by a pair of firm, all-natural 36 DDs." Just like the women in We Be Humpin' Hippos!

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The idea of pairs seems to trouble the indie-rock kids of (not explicitly a dating service, but c'mon), who channel their perceived romantic dysfunction into postures that range from pathetic ("Being a lonely emo kid with a punkish attitude is my life") to bitterly standoffish ("things I could live without include you, your live journal, and your indie rock pretensions") to over-the-top sassy ("interests: cock-sized popsicles"). If you're into black hair, tattoos, and, yes, glasses, you'll find that the ladies tend to be pretty hot. There are also more students here than on Nerve. Without exception, the guys are jackasses or douches—many have bad facial hair or piercings, shamelessly post pictures of themselves playing in a band, or contribute profiles bookended by "Fuck you" and "nostalgia"—so you boys shouldn't sweat the competition, or the fee: It's free.

If you somehow manage to get a date, you'll be faced with the prospect of taking the lass out. How can you surprise and charm them without cutting into your porn fund? Try stopping at a Mister Softee truck (by Astor Place, Union Square, etc.)—a regular-sized cone goes for $1.75, and sprinkles are, you guessed it, free! Nothing says, "Please, anything . . . a hand job, even," like a tall swirl of that refreshing soft-serve. They even sell cock-sized Popsicles. More inexpensive phallic food items can be found at Pommes Frites (123 Second Avenue, 674-1234). Scoops of their gourmet french fries go for $3.50, $5.50, or an indulgent $6.50, and any three of their many fancy sauces can be had for another $1.25. Next stop, intercourse!

photo: Staci Schwartz

Now that you've got a sexual partner, you'll want to escape from her with your crew of same-sex chums. I recommend heading to Hooters (211 West 56th Street, 581-5656), where, on a recent visit, giant screens flashed ESPN Classic, and the sweet sounds of Chicago and Blood, Sweat, and Tears filled the air. As our waitress—resplendent in a low-cut tank top and orange nylon hot pants—approached, I could see that she was checking me out. After taking my order for a grilled cheese with tomato, no crusts, please, and a Coors Lite, the way she giggled and asked for my ID told me everything that I needed to know. Why else would she work here, but to meet desperate, half-drunk men like myself? Why else but to constantly feel my eyes on her back, have me slip my sweaty hand into hers as she put down the de-crusted sandwich, hear my boldly suggestive inquiries about how much a Hooters calendar goes for? I mean, you should see the smiley face she drew on my check.

Some of you may be wondering why anyone should bother with Hooters, when Flash Dancers (1674 Broadway, 315-5107) charges no cover until 5 p.m. (It's $10 from 5 to 10 p.m.; $20 after.) You must've skipped ahead, because those are my sentiments exactly. Shiz, you don't even have to pay for their lunch buffet. Of course, Heinekens cost $9, and you'll run through a wad of ones quicker than at an arcade (I don't know what a lap dance costs. I was too shy to get one). As with any nudie bar, I'm more comfortable with its atmosphere than that of Hooters: The women, mostly wholesome, pert-knockered college chicks, either seem to enjoy the attention (men, especially older ones, tend to listen and respond carefully, if flirtatiously, to conversation), or go about approaching tables purely professionally, with cash accumulating quickly. Classier than I expected it to be, Flash Dancers could well succeed Joe's Over-Forty Revue as my new daytime hangout. But I don't want to see anyone there who's supposed to be in class!

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