A few years ago, before the recession and long enough after the Internet bubble and 9/11 that it seemed like America was always gonna kick ass (again), I was asked (for reasons still unbeknownst to me) to be a judge at Delilah’s annual Diamond G-String Contest. It was a memorable event, not just for the unsexy “Siegfried & Roy of Strippers” vibe of the performers, but also because of the level of flossing displayed even by the humblest of those of us offstage; bottle service everywhere, twenties crushed into thongs assembly-line style, and so on. You know the deal. Back then, the strip-club-as-cloyingly-fancy-Vegas-y-destination still made sense. And the Diamond G-String Contest, which occurs again tomorrow night, was Delilah’s proud “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED” reiteration of that idea; the contest pits teams of exotic dancers (usually about six of them) in a kind of battle of the bands/Bring It On-style elaborate strip-off. Like porno movies and Mummers performances, the teams usually employ some kind of theme/trope in which to frame the routine (“Rambo,” Sexy People From Outer Space, Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge), and the routines run 7-10 minutes long, as full of strained smiles as an infomercial for a megachurch. At stake is a grand prize of $10,000 and, of course, the Diamond G-String. (Which never fails to remind me of The Rock Of Crack As Big As The Ritz by Will Self, but associations are only what you make of them.)

Fast forward to now: Nationwide, the Vegas-y titty bar — or “Gentlemen’s Club,” which was always an unfortunate term — is experiencing a precipitous decline immediately after its biggest growth (I hesitate to use the word) spurt. Not unlike the real estate market, there was kind of a titty bubble (ahem) for a time, based on the same kind of socio-cultural speculation that led people to buy houses they knew they could never afford unless Crushing Debt That You Treat As Fakery was a pre-existing condition of the American psyche. You want this, the titty bar/$350K starter home told you; you can totally handle this. It felt right. Or if not right, then at least of its time. These days, though, ask any titty bar regular what feels right, and he’s more liable to talk about The Dolphin, where dancers feed a jukebox crinkly ones to provide soundtracks for their dances, or Pennsport which, uh, well, you kind of have to go there. So this year, the Diamond G-String Contest is also Miss Exotic Pennsylvania. Or, rather, if you win the Diamond G-String Contest, you also win Miss Exotic Pennsylvania. And that Diamond G-String, it turns out, is made of… not diamonds. (It never was, says a source who’s somehow close to this.) And $10K, split six ways, doesn’t go as far as it should. And as any person who’s ever had to take their clothes off for a living will tell you, things are rough all over.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, July 21st, 2009 at 9:17 am.