Nothing rings truer than Amerika: land of the free, home of the brave. Unlike its oil-guzzling Leviathan counterpart to the North, this Amerika is a much more accurate representation of what our forefathers imagined.
Land of the free: you don’t have to be Joey Defiglione sporting a Gucci getup to get inside. In fact, Joey would probably get some snickers from most attendees. You can go as anything from sexy Bilbo with a dildo to Joe Blow with sneakers and Amerika will welcome you.
No ritzy, tortoise-paced line outside either. The only queue is behind the register, which usually amounts to the time it takes McDonald’s to get you a cheeseburger. No need to be paranoid about those two joints in your cigarette pack or those pills in your purse. Security is more worried about weapons (which are NEVER brought) than an increased dose of smiling.
Since we’re all Brits, Irish, Scots, Aussies, New Zealanders, Americans (do Canadians drink?), etc, there’s nothing like a reasonable flat fee, all you can drink. On Fridays and Saturdays (the only days one should go) prices will usually 70 pesos ($18 USD). This gives you free reign to consume anything bottom shelf that salivates the taste buds. A small tip can go a long way if the bar is crowded.
*TIP: Upon entering or leaving you’ll receive a card for a free Thursday or Sunday entrance. Save it and it’ll get you a discount when you go Friday or Saturday (unless the cashier is in a douche-baggy mood).
Quick history. Amerika used to be a predominately gay club a decade or so ago. Story goes that the music was electrifying enough to slowly reel in the straight crowd. As soon as hetero girls enter the picture, the hetero predators come drooling in packs. So now you’ve got a nice smorgasbord of flamboyant guys, shirtless muscle hunks, sexed-up girls (who swing both ways), trannies, well-meaning drug monkeys, and your average John Doe and Mary Smiths.
Home of the Brave: calling this place your home really does require certain rites of passage. One must rock out on the catwalk for several consecutive songs for several consecutive weekends. At least one of the bartenders has gotta recognize you and greet you with a high five. And the bravery?
The Tunnel is like a time warp to a 1969 Ken Kesey darkroom. It’s one of those places that everyone has heard about but few have entered. It’s one of those places where legend, myth, and rumor are astonishingly accurate. Somewhere nestled beside the stage exists a dark ”tunnel” that’s more like the size of a racquetball court. Unless you’ve been robbed (and there is a high frequency), what happens in ”the tunnel” stays in ”the tunnel”.
It’s been called everything from ‘a sexual utopia’ to ‘a molester’s paradise’. Anything goes. Well anything except for bodily harm. Unless of course you’re into that kind of thing and it’s mutual. It’s a must-see for anyone with an anthropology degree, especially if he or she has a low self-esteem and hasn’t masturbated in more than three days.
The reality of it (sorry straight guys) is that it’s primarily horny gay dudes looking for some immediate sexual gratification. Every blue moon you’ll get a boisterous young dame prepared to challenge the cock gauntlet but she’s almost guaranteed to be accompanied by someone of 1988 Hulk Hogan stature. Just make sure your hands are protecting your valuables- no, not those- your possessions of value. Do not enter with I-Phones or large denomination bills.
One time I tried not to have fun at Amerika. I was successful for about eight minutes. The fun meter is so far through the roof it’s like Popeye took a hammer to it.
So you’ve got a free bar, a sexual atmosphere denser than osmium, acrobatic shows, tranny announcers, strippers of both sexes, enough eye candy to make Studio 54 jealous, and some kick-ass tunes. Need I say more?
