By Natalya Jones
By County Grind
By Liz Tracy
By Chris Joseph
By Liz Tracy
By Matt Preira
By Jesse Scheckner
By Michael E. Miller
"And then what?" I asked.
"You'll end up falling right on your head."
Her friend Teddy, on his way to the men's room, flashed me a good-natured smile and whispered: "I see you're getting that 'when-will-she-shut-up?' look in your eye. I'm telling you: She won't." Then the siren sounded for the umpteenth time that night, and the girls writhed and swiveled on the bar.
When Toni stuffed a dollar bill into the seat of a blond's leather bikini, the girl turned and tried to pull her up to dance on the bar.
"No!" Toni shrilled, pushing away the blond's hand. "I'm old and flabby now!"
"You look great," Teddy said. "And you're dressed for it. Get on up there, girl!" Toni looked horrified.
"When I was a dancer, I had boyfriends ask me to dance for them. And I would say, 'No. I do that all damn day,'" Toni said after the song ended. "I was a dancer for years. And I don't want to do it any more."
Ballers, at only two months old, and already boasting more leather on a Saturday night than your local BDSM shop, is a prime place to chill with some of the friendliest bad-asses in South Florida. As I sipped my final beer, I heard the sirens blare again — sometimes it happened back-to-back — accompanied by the familiar pounding intro to "I Love Rock N' Roll."
Hey, sometimes you don't need a bar brawl to feel like a bad-ass — just the right environment will do the trick. Making small talk with an ex-stripper and flirting with bandana-wearing bikers is as close to the wild side as I want to get. At least for tonight.