Ok time at church.
On a Thursday evening around 8:07pm, I made the rare drive up to St. James since I had no early work calls the next day. The parking lot was moderately occupied—neither empty nor packed—with plenty of spots available, and the car wash station was open, tempting me with a $50 basic clean, though I ultimately passed. I missed the half-price cover by just seven minutes (it’s $10 before 8pm), so I paid the full $20, which felt a bit steep. Upon entering, waiters near the door immediately asked if I wanted a table, but I never sit—I prefer to walk around. The main stage dominates the front with two satellite stages directly ahead and bars flanking either side. I chose the right-hand bar as you walk in. At 8pm, the club felt in transition: the day shift was winding down or leaving, and the night shift was just settling in, resulting in fewer girls circulating than usual. Still, all stages were active, though the rotation quality was mediocre—consistent with a downward trend I’ve noticed since the mid-2010s. I attribute this to platforms like OnlyFans and streaming, where attractive dancers can earn easy money from thirsty men online without leaving home; one girl I know even had an anonymous admirer buy her a new BMW.
I nursed $11 Tito’s and sodas at the bar, swatting away approaches from dancers I found unattractive for about 45 minutes. Eventually, a blonde spinner slid up beside me and started chatting. She looked younger from a distance but was clearly older up close—still fine by me. We talked briefly before a regular sat down, and she excused herself for her stage set. After her performance, she made a beeline for him, so I wrote her off. Another half hour passed; I chatted with a couple of Cuban dancers who weren’t bad, but I come to St. James for a specific vibe, not that—Chicas Locas is for that crowd. To my surprise, the blonde returned and asked if I wanted dances. She initially quoted 3 for $100—the sucker rate. I laughed it off as ridiculous; I’m never desperate for dances and always stick to a set budget. I countered with a guaranteed number of songs at $20 each, essentially a lap dance minimum. She paused, clearly used to guys paying full price without haggling, but ultimately agreed—better to secure the money than lose it. We headed to the small downstairs dance rooms, where she delivered solid, high-contact grinding. Halfway through, she pitched VIP; I politely declined, saying maybe another time, and suggested swapping numbers. We finished, parted on good terms, and I left satisfied. Overall, it was a solid night by today’s diminished strip club standards—ho-hum by historical measures, but in this era, beggars can’t be choosers.
