New Times' Special Super Bowl Guide to Sex, Drugs, Gambling, and Living Large in South Florida

Welcome to the land of excess and instant gratification. You sensed it when you got off the plane or maneuvered into that I-95 exit lane. Or maybe it was the first time you spotted that shady, mustached man with sunglasses and a briefcase, standing conspicuously under a palm tree. This isn't the canned, corporately manufactured indulgence of Las Vegas. You're in South Florida now, the land of champagne dreams and billion-dollar Ponzi schemes. You can have anything you want for the right price. Down here, there's a general understanding that everybody needs something.

Maybe it's sex or drugs. In this vice-laden land, you can visit dozens of strip clubs, score seven kinds of drugs, hire prostitutes of eight races and three sexual orientations, and find a group of people willing to dress up like horses and let you whip them, all before dinner. Maybe it's the thrill of a gamble you seek or the excitement you get from living a life of luxury — even if it's all on credit. Here, you can bet on things your relatives up north have never even heard of, all in a place overpopulated with ridiculously expensive cars and glorious penthouse suites.

But nothing ruins the perfect party week like someone dying or going to jail. So we've done the arduous research, taken the dangerous journeys, and interviewed dozens of local experts to bring you the definitive guide to depravity in the Sunshine State.

Sex in SoFla

During those late nights in South Florida, when the warm breeze blows in off the water, you can almost smell the scent of sex. Those are sea turtles. And those sea turtles probably just got done bumping shells. Because, in a land where Viagra is king, bikinis and bathhouses are in bloom year-round, and even politicians pop up at the neighborhood wine bar swinger parties, sex is by far the most popular pastime. With scant searching, you can find hookers, strippers, swingers, and all sorts of fetishists and porn stars. Anything your lecherous heart desires. Here's how to get in on the action.


Nobody knows more about South Florida strip-club etiquette than retired rapper Ricky "Disco Rick" Taylor, formerly leader of the pioneering Miami hip-hop group the Dogs. He's the "talent manager" (read: stripper-wrangler) at the colossal, all-nude King of Diamonds club in Miami Gardens, which caters to pro athletes and rappers and features a basketball court and barbershop on premises.

Whether the dollar bills you're planning on tossing onto gyrating honeys come from that sneaker deal you just signed with Converse or your Arby's paycheck, there's no need to appear like an amateur. Heed Disco Rick's sage advice, as told in his own words:

The number-one rule is, do not come to the strip club if your baby mama's dancing. That never ends well. We're gonna throw you out and her out.

The second rule is, don't ever hand a stripper a large amount of money to get you your singles. Nine times out of ten, she's not coming back.

There is sex in the champagne room. There's not supposed to be. What we don't know about, we don't give a fuck.

Do not hold up your camera phone. Disco Rick sees you do that, we have a problem.

We're the guards of the prison, and the strippers are the prisoners. You have to remember, they're drunk too.

When a dancer tells security that she gave you 12 dances and you say she gave you six, who are we going to believe — her drunk ass or your drunk ass? Her drunk ass.

Please ask how much each dance costs before you have a girl dance on you for 20 songs.

The top performers make $400,000 to $800,000 a year. I've seen one girl make $28,000 in a night. Her name is Tip Drill. She's more like a Cirque du Soleil performer than a stripper.

Our making-it-rain policy is this: We tell you not to throw money all over the customers. And not to throw money on girls who are not working as strippers.

If you're a customer and money falls on your head, just throw it to the ground. Or, to be courteous, throw it toward the dancers. If you put it in your pocket, I'll cut the music.

If you got invited to the White House, would you light up a joint inside? So why would you light one up when you're invited into my house? Nuh-uh. No fucking way. I'll cut off the music.

The guy who nurses a Coke? He has to go home early.

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Gus Garcia-Roberts
Michael J. Mooney