Thinking back now during this pandemic shut down to when we met Chloe, interesting Chloe, and her mom who was even more so (pictured). Some day this shutdown will end…
As described before, we at Les Revue strive to bring you the very best in mature entertainment for discerning adults. In doing so we are embarking on another Talent Search.
I’ve posted a gallery HERE of archival art photos as an example of the talent we seek. They’re not porn stars or sex workers (although there’s nothing wrong with that) — they’re models and performance artists, as well as girls sourced from the community that wanted to fulfill a need to try something exciting.
New girls looking for a modeling gig can contact us HERE.
[strip club review]
by Reviewer X
I showed up at Dames & Games early on a Saturday night, 9 p.m. November 16, after I’d made a first-time exploratory trip to Gold-Diggers on Santa Monica Boulevard only to find out it hadn’t been stripping for three years now and was a boutique dive bar instead of the stripclub it gave off the vibe of due to its looks from the street. I’d also stopped by The Playpen on South Santa Fe Ave. to do a first-time visit before coming here but although Playpen looked high-end it appeared dead and too well-lit so the $20 cover didn’t feel like a good investment. So I opted not to go in and came to this place instead.
Online the cover was listed as $10 but the doorman standing in the entry asked for $15, and wouldn’t budge — friendly but firm as he scanned my i.d. card under the desk light. I probably sounded like a total cheapskate straight out’o the gate and catching a glimpse of the girl at the desk beside him she wasn’t impressed. I told him this club’s cover was listed on TUSCL as $10. “The cover charge is fifteen dollars,” he cheerfully repeated. “We’re not the Spearmint Rhino, sir.” After I paid he told me the door charge gets me a pat down. He then asked me to turn around and face the door so he could make sure I have “no weapons of mass destruction,” as he gave me a brief frisk and ran the electric wand over me.
I got an $8 bottle of Corona with no lime from the sports lounge in back and tipped the female bartender $2 even though she took her sweet time finding my eyes to serve me. There was a medium-sized crowd of marks, I’d say, mostly in the bar area and not around the stage. This is a larger club, mind you, and it was still rather early in the evening. I saw two main rooms, one being the sports bar in back and the larger stage room in front. The stage itself is big and curvy with three poles in its center space. The club has a well maintained appearance and seems high-end and it’s just dark enough, which I like. The girls this night were alright looking, mostly fives, and would go on singly or two at a time, sometimes three. A few were slightly on the more chunky side, some less. Okay I honestly wasn’t that impressed with any of them except Lola. Not too into some of the chubbies with pear-shaped asses I saw but whatever, to each their own. They probably have their regulars too.
Then out of nowhere Lola appeared. Swooping in with blonde hair and thin lips, young and very pretty in a natural girl-next-door way, maybe 5-4 or so, slender but firm, she sauntered over from my 10 o-clock and without asking wordlessly slinked her way onto my lap, stealthily planting her ass and legs on my thigh and reclined against the sofa next to my shoulder with her face inches from mine. She moved like a cat mounting her favorite branch of a tree. ‘Very nice,’ I thought, ‘this girl is good.’ Her right butt cheek was pressing down on my dick now and as we talked I felt the beginnings of a boner. I wiggled it shamelessly under her weight.
Lola and I embarked on the smalltalk chitchat. I told her I was new in town and where I was from. Turns out we’re both from the same Southern California county. We talked about… what else did we talk about at first, again? I think she might have said something about her school, although I could be conflating this with another stripper at another club. Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have waited two weeks to write this review. She definitely told me she’d been dancing for a year and listed a string of L.A. strip clubs but said she works at D&G because here she can drink. I think she told me the club is somehow affiliated with the Spearmint, although if she said it was owned by them I don’t exactly recall so I won’t quote her. This immediately reminded me of a great long semi-private lap dance I’d been given from an Hispanic dancer at the downtown Rhino fifteen years ago for $75 where there was LOTS of action/mileage. The girl actually took my hands and placed them on her bare tits and thonged ass at the start of the dance when she sat on me. It was a shocker being from super uptight San Diego like I was.
Lola said the price for her privates at D&G that night was $140 for I think four songs. I asked her what that included and she said I could touch her as she looked towards the front of her body. I was already slowly giving this kitty cat a fingertip massage up and down her left butt cheek, back and thigh. “But,” she said, “the bikini stays on.” Sounds sneaky in retrospect. I think she then mumbled something offhand about the local ordinances right now. We talked a while to see if I’d warm up. Eventually she came down to $25 for a one-song dance, which from her tone of voice was her final offer. I eventually declined saying I didn’t want to lead her on thinking I would but was actually really enjoying her being there even if it was for a sales pitch. How often does an old geezer in his mid-fifties get a young hottie to spread her ass on his leg unless you’re a gym teacher or some kind of monger? This felt normal. I asked Lola what her ideal job would be as she reclined on me as a chair. She replied straight away, “To be a billionaire who didn’t have to work.” She didn’t say ‘actress’ or ‘model’; she’s a real Angeleno and not naive.
I told her that she felt good while we bided our time to see if I’d bite. She really did — all young and lean. She purred that I did too, and asked when I was born. When I told her, approximately, she replied with hers and my astrological signs, and said we were a good match. Judging from how well this hot bitch’s ass fit my hip and thigh I was tempted to accept this as more than just stripper talk, but hey I’d only had less than one beer and been in the club for like ten minutes. I then offered, “Maybe we should date?” She nodded, smiling while giving good direct eye-contact. This baby was really working her mark. (Glad I wrote notes as I left the bar because I’d forgotten about that detail.) Maybe I should have taken a chance on that one-song dance, in retrospect. But then I impulsively asked if I could get her phone number and she expressionlessly replied, “Yes, if you get a private.” That was when I asked her for the prices ($140) and what’s allowed.
All in all she was a fine looking sweetie but I told her I didn’t want to lead her on because I wasn’t going to do that. She tried again for a one-song $25 dance but I said no. I felt sorry for her and we talked bit more before she moved on, looking at me annoyed now as she got up from my lap. I wished her luck and said, “Make lot’s of money!”
So, sadly, sport fans, this cheap date didn’t get any play from the lovely Lola. I hope she scores there. Los Angeles can be expensive for a girl like her if they don’t have a sugar daddy. The artist class in this town is starved out by ultra high rents and no one comes here expecting to ‘Make It In Hollywood’ anymore. Even the porn industry has left town due to over-regulation. There’s still some good times to be had though, if you feel you have disposable cash. On a different night I might’ve gambled on more than a lapdance with lovely Lola at Dames & Games.
[words and photos by the mysterious Reviewer X]
by Reviewer Rob
No thought of visiting the Hollywood Comedy Store again had occurred to me until I began following Joe Rogan’s podcast earlier this year after he famously nuked Elon Musk by talking him into smoking weed on camera.
Like millions of others I’ve found Rogan’s internet talk shows to be a source of inspiration. Things that I’d been interested in but hadn’t put a name to had been made clearer for me. For example the sciatica therapy that began years ago and recently I’d battled with doing pull ups, bar dips, and leg curls at the gym could be described by a term I’d first heard uttered by Rogan during one of his pre-broadcast advertorials: “spinal decompression”. I think it was when he was describing the effect of one of those hanging-upside-down-by-your-ankles contraption things a sponsor to his show sells. So just like that, wah-lah, I knew what I’d been doing all along, or at least now I had a word for it.
As time went on I’d hear shows where he’d revel with comic guests about the Comedy Store on Sunset Boulevard and how on any weekend of the month you could get the high privilege of seeing the world’s best comics hone their art form, “for only $20.”
Rogan made it sound like it’s watching Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel and reminded me that yeah we’re pretty lucky here in Southern California. All that Hollywood entertainment talent is in such close proximity. So I made plans to go back to the spooky black Haunted House of a building on Sunset Boulevard.
‘Everybody’s a dreamer and everybody’s a star / And everybody’s in movies, it doesn’t matter who you are’ ~Celluloid Heroes
I first met Sam Kinison with Mitzi Shore at the La Jolla Comedy Store, the smaller San Diego outlet of the Sunset Boulevard franchise. In 1986 Rodney Dangerfield was in top form and had a show on prime time that was showcasing the young comedians of the day. That’s where I first saw Sam Kinison. He was loud and irreverent in a way that was dangerously truthful. A former preacher, they said he was, he’d make jokes about Jesus being up on the cross and how his last words were probably, “Uhrrrrgh!” It was the Reagan era and the Moral Majority was trying to get America back into church.
Another one of Kinison’s bits was about the people who would go to Africa and film those ‘help the starving Africans’ infomercials. He’d ridicule the producers and camera people who would shoot scenes of heartbreaking poverty and not give the starving kid a sandwich, or something. Another joke was, after saying all these irreverent things, he tell the audience that people would ask him, “Sam, aren’t you afraid of going to hell?” At this point he’d do that squeaky high-pitched laugh and say, “No. I’m not afraid of going to hell. I’ve been married…” and go into his bit about how he’d die and expects to be greeted by Satan at the gates of hell, only to disappoint the devil who’ll sees he’s not terrified. So the devil reluctantly takes off his mask and gives him “the ten-cent tour” of hell.
This was 1986. Ronald Reagan was in his second term, he and Baptist minister Jerry Falwell’s religious-right “Moral Majority” ruled the political landscape. After the anti-establishment 1960’s and the decadent 70’s America was finding church again. But I’d found a different kind of church.
“Over here is where we torment the soul,” the devil says, leading Kinison around the bowels of the underworld, “and this is where we make men sell out and give up on their dreams. (the devils stops) What’s that? You say you’ve been married?” The devil turns reflective, “Hey — do you want a job?”
Kinison brought with him an entourage consisting of his hot Japanese girlfriend, Tamayo Otsuki, who I thought was super attractive but wasn’t really all that funny — maybe due to English being a second language — and his side-kick/henchman Carl Labove, who was a pretty good foil for him on stage.
Kinison was harsh, and totally hilarious. They called him “The Screamer” because he’d interperse high-volume outbursts of hollering on stage during his sets. But I called him honest. His act showed that the best humor is accessed when the one doing the delivery has the courage to reveal it.
At the tie I was in my early twenties and had it in my head that I was going to be a big important writer for major magazines, so after seeing Kinison on the Rodney Dangerfield comedy special and then noticing an ad in the local paper for the La Jolla Comedy Store where he was headlining I had to go see him. After his show I approached him in the front lobby area of the Store and introduced myself, telling him I wanted to write about him.
He said something like, Okay kid (he could see how green I was, “I’ll help you out.” Not sure if he called me kid, he might have, but he did say “I’ll help you out.”
We were sitting at a small two-seat table by the wall with all the 8x10s of comics. He asked, “Who’d this for, Playboy, Penthouse?” I was such a dumbfuck. I replied something about freelancing it to California Magazine, who since folded, I believe. Clearly disappointed, Kinison rolled his eyes. He was tired from doing the show or high, so he gave me his address in Hollywood. It was in the hills above Sunset Boulevard, a street called Beverly Terrace or something.
As people were clearing out I knocked on the office door where Mitzi Shore was with Kinison and Carl Labove in the room with her. She was seating at the desk counting the night’s cash or something with Kinison standing over her counting as well, I think. Maybe he was getting a percentage. Labove was seated by the door near me at I poked my head in. I asked if I’d be allowed free entry to the next night’s show. I was stoked to be there but was looking for a journalistic industry courtesy.
A bit annoyed she seemed to keep counting but agreed, yes fine. Then as I started to leave I turned around and asked, “Can I bring a friend?” Without missing a beat she looked up from her counting and pointed at me, “You’re really pushing it,” she shouted as Kinison erupted in laughter and Labove held his brow in his hand and shook his head in wonderment.
The next night Kinson and his crew were even funnier. Danger on stage.