By Tony Mitch

My birthday was last weekend, and I was reminded of something, well, something kind of sad. Seven years ago on my 30th birthday I pawned my childhood electric guitar for cash to see some cleavage. I was broke at the time, utterly penniless. Just remembering that day makes my pride drop to the bottom of the Hudson, someplace amid the sludge. That birthday was more like a funeral than a celebration.

I managed to resurface from that memory—my pride somewhat intact—when I remembered the story of the CEO late last year who dropped a quarter-of-a-million dollars at Scores, an Upper East Side strip club. According to a Daily News article, this CEO of a billion-dollar dotcom went out to celebrate a deal with his buds, and a few hours later, he’d managed to rack up a bill of $250,000. Lap dances at Scores are roughly $25 and drinks are probably $15. Do the math: He must have had thousands of lap dances, or he tipped all the girls in the house a grand each (which was the claim by the Scores folks). They didn’t mind, but Amex got pissed when the CEO wouldn’t pay his bill, claiming he spent “only” $50,000.

Like this executive, my own penchant for strip clubs started out harmlessly—a night out with the boys. As some of you old-school New Yorkers might remember, the now-legendary Billy’s Topless was located on Sixth Avenue and 23rd street (the only mounds you’ll see there now are piles of bagels). 

I frequented Billy’s regularly with a group of friends in the ’90s. They never charged a cover, and on Friday nights, a little buffet was set up on the far edge of the stage near the bathrooms. I was always a little drunk and hungry when I arrived and would eat anything. It felt extra-nasty eating something that looked like a sausage and peppers sandwich while watching some pale-skinned blonde with pimples on her ass shake it for me. But it was cheap, and I was horny and hungry.

I never remembered it being totally about the girls. Nice and easygoing, they danced and hung out, but they didn’t demand to give you a lap dance or try to suck the money from your pocket. More like an exotic tapestry that every so often I could stare at and admire. They never fixed a price on the lap dance either; it ended and began seamlessly like a conversation between two people in line at the bank.

Being a regular at Billy’s Topless never bothered me, especially since all my pals, women included, went with me. It was more like a bar with strippers than a strip bar. Throwing singles at the girls seemed to be sufficient. This went on for a few years until my 30th birthday. 

That morning I woke up broke. The fact that I was penniless and turning 30 was terribly debilitating. I woke up and started drinking just to annihilate the pain. Of course, the pain was hardly annihilated, and since I had very little plans for myself, I went on drinking and delving into deep self-pity.

I looked about my apartment for extra cash, but after going through all my pants, looking under the futon and even in the refrigerator—where I used to stash money and drugs—I knew for certain I had nothing. 

By lunch, I had a hefty buzz on since I’d been drinking wine for breakfast. All my credit cards were maxed out so I scanned my room for something to sell. And there, leaning against the wall, was my old electric guitar. I didn’t think twice about it. I snatched it up and stuffed it in the gig bag (figuring it was worth something too) and hoped I’d score at least 100 bucks.

It was a cold February day, and I made my way down to Manny’s on 48th street by 4 o’clock, and I laid my ax on the table. The guy opened up the bag and began examining it. At that moment it hit me that I was selling my electric guitar. Not just any guitar, but the guitar on which I was practically reared. I had played hundreds of gigs with this guitar and practiced for days at a time. My father had given it to me on my 18th birthday, and here I was, 12 years later, pawning it out of desperation. Felt like I was just asking for a spanking. 

After I left the music store, with cold cash in hand, I felt completely dejected. I had an aching headache, so I immediately bought a tall boy at a local bodega and headed directly to Billy’s Topless. I was to meet two friends there for my birthday. When I arrived, I was alone amid the red-neon soaked room. And yet, something was different: It felt lonely, and I had the feeling that I was being watched.

After my friends arrived we drank and watched the girls. They were both doing more than well with their careers, and they bought our drinks. But somehow I still managed to spend half of the $85 I got for my guitar on the girls. I couldn’t help myself. The money just drifted out of my pocket. It vanished.

My birthday came and went, and the same can be said about the New York City strip club scene. For one thing, Billy’s is gone, and with it any scummy bar with strippers. You just can’t go out, have a beer and watch naked girls dance anymore. Those days are gone and have been replaced with clubs where bouncers bound in black turtlenecks eye you up and down before corralling you into velvet ropes. 

When I think of going to a strip club in the city, I’m faced with choices where it’s $20 to get in on the weekends, $20 for a lap dance, and a minimum $10 for a drink. That’s pretty much standard for such upscale entertainment complexes like Bare Elegance, Flash Dancers, Legs Diamond, New York Dolls and, of course, Scores. I can also expect that, unless I have a cash wad of $500, I’ll be reduced to a sniveling 16-year-old, even if I am in my late thirties.

Yet, despite the money and the changing times (and, yes, much better-looking performers), being a CEO or being broke, pawning your guitar or maxing out your company’s Amex, it’s all the same bottom-line: Empty pockets, empty souls.