(Almost) Barenaked Ladies

The girls are hot and the inhibitions are few at Delray's Club 101.

"We're here promoting," Rob the Milkman said. He gestured to his friend, who gave me a lazy nod of the head. "We're DJs, promoters — trying to get people to recognize us around here."

"It seems to be working," I said.

"Last night, we had a show at a South Beach club," he said. "The bass literally blew out the speakers."

"Awesome." I was distracted; I'd just noticed an eye-catching pink and black, tiger-striped purse touching his leg. "So, uh, what kind of music do you produce?"

"Dirty South, hip-hop, house, all kinds," he said.

"What do you think of this club?" I asked.

He smiled. "Cool. It has potential."

I asked if he'd ever DJ here.

"I don't know," he said politely. "I tend to be a little more underground."

Just then, Jae walked over, snatched up the pink-striped purse, and withdrew a cigarette. She lit it and took a puff. Then, seeing that the drunken amateurs had abandoned the pole over my shoulder, she hopped up and began gyrating slowly, from the hips. She paused for intermittent cigarette puffs.

"That's my girlfriend," Rob the Milkman said sheepishly when he noticed I'd abandoned conversation with him to watch her shake her ass, take a drag, and repeat.

I went back up to the bar to contemplate drinking more when I almost ran into two attractive, blue-jean-clad blonds. Jamie and Ambra were reunited sisters out for a night of partying. I asked them what they thought about the club, the music, the South Beach feel, the fact that 300 was playing on the TVs, the fedoras, and the dancer's fuzzy boots.

"We're having fun," Ambra cut me off and smiled. "And that's about all that matters."

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