Strip Club Review—Baltimore’s Last Chub Club

The Last Chub Club: A Review of Ladies Night at The Gentlemen’s Gold Club

By Ingrid Verde

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Some hot man-ass at Ladies Night
Photo by Ingrid Verde

“BALLS IN MAH FACE! BALLS IN MAH FACE!”

Directly in front of me, a hulking beast of a woman was rocking sweatpants with her FUPA (fat upper pussy area) safely tucked-in. She vigorously shook her limp, graying hair back and forth between the thighs of the Adonis on stage. Her cloudy bifocals became snagged in Rocky the Mutilator’s g-string. In the corner of the room, screams arose as another Abercrombie-model-esque god, with abs you could lose a finger in, threw a middle-aged woman onto his shoulders so that she straddled him. A group of similarly dressed older women made it rain dollar bills or shoved them into Woody’s ass crack.  No, I was not at a cannibalistic feeding frenzy—it was Ladies Night at The Gold Club.

Now, I’ve been to my fair share of titty bars, but the Gold Club is unique in that it features an occasional Lady’s Night wherein female strippers perform in one section of the club and male strippers perform in an adjacent section, separated by a soundproof wall. Of course, I went to both.

Walking into the lady’s side, I was immediately accosted by male dancers who weaved through the screaming crowd of uncouth, clawing women while wearing masks and camouflage pants, and carrying plastic guns—complete with orange caps. “THESE TALIBAN ARE SEARCHING FOR HOSTAGES LAAADIIEEESS!” the announcer shouted into the microphone from his booth above the stage. I realized that I was most definitely not drunk enough to match these older ladies’ levels of enthusiasm. Meandering through the crowd of sweating, energetic women I finally made it to the bar, which was a three-people-deep sea of waving money fitted with a single bartender trying to appease the mass of thirsty women. I grabbed my compadre, Jane, and told her we would get our drinks on the other side.

After shoving our way to the door, we gasped for the slightly less-stale air of the hallway that led toward the door to the naked women. Upon entering, the difference in atmosphere smacked me in the face. The men all sat around the oblong stage in silence sipping their drinks as fully-nude strippers danced and crawled around the pole. The bartender immediately got me my signature drink and brought Jane and me shots of Fireball. “From the guy across the bar,” he told us. A balding middle-aged man raised his glass to us and flashed a crooked smile. “They make Hawaiian style polo shirts?” Jane whispered.

Photo by Andre Novak

We decided to get our drink on at this more accommodating bar before re-entering the freak-out-fest on the other side. On stage, one dancer began to twerk on all fours in front of two men who must have come from the county and threw crumpled up 20s into her snatch. On the other side, the largest stripper I’ve ever seen spread her legs into the air and did what I can only describe as a sexy-upside-down-worm while the patrons stared mouths agape into the void. I looked to Jane, “Just think, they make more than us on any given night. I’m pretty sure my college degree is completely worthless.”

It was time to head back to the other side where cowboys, firefighters, gladiators, and cops with handcuffs all in semi-states of undress gyrated everywhere. A frantic grandmotherly woman shoved me to the side and yelled above the pounding music, “You’re too tall! I can’t see my favorite dancer!”

The drinks hit me at once, and it was time to break the seal. The restroom line stretched out the door. I took my place just outside the door and warded off strippers who obviously had little regard for the state of my bladder.  After five minutes, I could see the stalls and knew that soon my bladder would be relieved. A group of women preening in the mirrors discussed their favorite dancers. “The Terminator is so sexy! I want him to sit on my face all night long!” The door to the restroom stall swung open, and I dashed towards it. A large older woman with a belly shirt emerged and grabbed my arm. “Lawd a’ mercy, you are so pretty! Did you see my son out there? The black one, dressed as Tarzan? Can I get your number for him?” Uhhh, no thanks. But only because I don’t want to tell our future children I met their father swinging from a bar in his underwear while I popped bandz-ta-make-him-dance.

The Gold Club Review

Cleanliness: Irrelevant. It’s a strip club.

Staff: Sexy and very friendly—especially if you throw dolla bills at them.

Price: Cheap entrance fee and average priced drinks. Again, the more 1s you have the friendlier the staff.

Chance of finding your one true love: Check the restrooms for mothers pimping their sons.

Overall experience: A must do.