A Nude Dance Club Vs. the System: The Agony of the Extasy

Is there such a thing as a politically correct nude dancing club?

To the general public, there is something inherently sleazy about any club featuring women dancing naked for a room full of salivating men.

But the buff buffs--the community of those who hang about or work in nude dancing clubs--say that Northridge’s Extasy club was groping for something a bit more . . . elevated.

Extasy claimed to offer “classy, wholesome, All-American” entertainment in the eight days that it was open before being shut down by authorities Jan. 24. Its operators protested that their shows were the “purest form of free speech.”

Could that be what legal scholars refer to as “vigorous free speech”?

Club supporters say it provides patrons with a guilt-free outlet for their sexual fantasies. Along with fantasies, they note, the club serves wholesome fruit juices and mineral waters instead of alcohol.

“It’s the safest form of safe sex--it’s just our bodies and their minds,” Daphne, a raven-haired dancer, said just after a set. “No one ever catches anything from a fantasy.”

To opponents, Extasy is a scummy venue that would draw drunks and criminals to Corbin Avenue and Nordhoff Street. Feminists say such establishments encourage men to see women as silicone-enhanced sex dolls rather than as human beings.

Opponents won the first round: A court order prevents Extasy from offering nude dancing until after a Feb. 19 hearing.

But interviews with dancers, employees and customers found a consensus that Extasy was kinder and gentler than similar venues. The dancers said San Fernando Valley customers are the most polite they have ever exposed themselves to.

The dancers, many of whom say they have performed throughout the nation, especially like the alcohol-free Extasy, claiming that sober patrons are not only nicer but tip better than their inebriated counterparts.

“Drunk guys say gross stuff and they’ll try anything,” said Champagne, a petite woman with blonde hair. “But these guys are so sweet. They’re nicer when they don’t drink and, when they’re nicer, I’m sexier and I make more money.”

“The Valley crowd is so awesome,” chimed in Raime, a tall dancer who had just finished a performance. “These guys really respect women.”

From Hollywood to Disneyland, Southern California is famous for marketing fantasy, and Extasy is just another kind of fantasy factory, they said. Dancers, who say their only pay is the tips they receive, see themselves as simply an unusual business subculture.

Naked Came the Entrepreneurs.

“I’m only 24 and I have job that gives me financial independence and power over lots of men,” said Daphne, a single mother who is saving money to start a ceramic shop in Oklahoma. “Where else can I do that at my age?” (Well, Daphne, there’s always. . . . No, you’re probably not the West Point type.)

Daphne says she has degrees in art history and psychology from the University of Wisconsin. She and some of her colleagues appear to defy the stereotype of nude dancers as confused victims on the path to prostitution and drug addiction. But not all Extasy dancers are quite so socially upwardly mobile.

“Do you want a rocket scientist or a bimbo?” club spokesman Steve Gamer asked. “We’ve got them both here.”

As for bimbos--well, there were several who looked the part, but perhaps they were simply Olympic-level champs at concealing their Social Register pedigrees and Harvard doctorates under purple lipstick and rhinestone-studded panties.

Another from the ranks of the rocket scientists calls herself Jazz, and she says she is a pre-law student at nearby Cal State Northridge.

“When I’m in school, I look like a schoolgirl; when I’m here, I dress--or undress--the part,” said Jazz, a statuesque 26-year-old woman.

“You just learn to keep the parts of your life separate,” Jazz said, holding up a knapsack of textbooks she brought to study between dances. “A lot us of won’t tell people we meet on the outside what we do for a living. We’re too ashamed.”

As she spoke, Jazz donned a G-string and a see-through gown and ran on to one of the club’s two stages.

On the other, a dancer with a tattooed snake crawling up her thigh cavorted for six blue-collar workers from a commercial bakery and a sprinkling of men in shapeless gray suits.

Customers pay a $6 entrance fee and are required to buy two nonalcoholic drinks at $3 to $5 a pop for a chance to see the women boogie to taped music.

Each dancer plays to a male fantasy. Daphne wears black leather, black lace and thick black eye shadow to dance to heavy metal music. Jazz performs to rap, but most dancers prefer generic disco or techno-pop.

Champagne plays “the little girl,” beginning each appearance in a lacy prom-type outfit.

“Older guys just love me--I remind them of the girl from back in high school that they just can’t forget,” she said, tossing her curly hair to one side before running back on stage, this time without her “The Way We Were” outfit, or anything else.

The factory guys ate it up.

“I grew up in this part of the Valley and it’s about time they got something here that’s not totally boring,” said Gary, who, like most customers, declined to give his full name.

Randy, sitting next to him, agreed.

“People want to close this place down, but it’s really safer than your corner bar,” he said. “We’ve all got families and jobs. We’re just here for a little tease. It’s not like we’re mass murderers.”