Why are Comdexters so loath to buy their thrills?

Geoff Carter

Thursday, Nov. 19, 1998 | 10:36 a.m.

I have to confess: I love breasts. Women's, to be specific. I mean, jeez, what do you want me to say? I'm a man, you fools. A leg man, but a man nonetheless.

Having said that, I can say that I'm not much for the places men go to see them in action. I've never gotten on with so-called "gentlemen's clubs" - not because there's topless women everywhere (Go, breasts, go!) but because there's smug, horny, desperate men everywhere and they look like idiots and smell like chumps. I don't like being reminded of the base idiocy of the male child, so I don't go to strip clubs, and I satisfy my tops-and-tails fetish by watching Helen Hunt in "Twister" - again and again and again.

Las Vegas' strip clubs do high-volume business during Comdex. "You come in here after 9 p.m. and it's standing room only," says a brunette dancer, who declines to be identified. The bartender shrugs, choosing his words carefully - "Yeah, it's a ... high volume crowd. But it's gotta be done."

The weary, exhausted tone that creeps into their voices is part of the reason I'm at Crazy Horse Too tonight: The persistent rumor that Comdex conventioneers can't tip dancers - or anybody else, for that matter - to save their lives.

"Comdex guys are so uptight," says Sapphire Dawn, one of off-Strip gentleman's club Cheetah's star attractions. "Yes, they're enjoying what's going on, but they're afraid. They're so accustomed to being confined in their own home that they don't know how to touch. Guys that get out a lot - well, they're at least going to try. Even if it's something as simple as touching my thigh, they're going to try it. Comdex guys are a little more intimidated."

"I won't work Comdex nights any more," says the brunette. "It's just not worth it. I've heard from dozens of cabbies about Com-dorks who pay $5 on a $4.90 fare and actually say, 'Keep the change.' They're unbelievably cheap."

I arrive at 7:00 and hang out for one hour. Despite the bartender's warning - "Any minute now," he shudders - only a handful of Comdexters show up, acting every bit the clichi. Some are still wearing their badges, dangling loosely from their jackets; others are jabbering about "bandwidth" as they pick up a round of three beers, leaving a single dollar tip.

Oh yes, these guys are so money, baby. And even though my own behavior hardly distinguishes me - sitting at the bar, nursing bourbon on the rocks and shaking my head wildly - at least I tipped the bartender well.

"Jeez, you don't want to get the waitresses started," says the brunette. "Last night, this guy ordered two drinks, and when the waitress shows up with them an drops the check, he's all shocked. I'd love to meet the idiot who keeps telling these dweebs that all drinks in Vegas are comped."

"I did two dances for one (conventioneer)," says Sapphire, "and after I finished he said, 'Uh, I hate to ask how much I owe you.' He owed me 40 - 20 for each dance. And let me tell you - he went through his wallet, through every pocket, through every piece of clothing he had, and he still had to borrow two dollars from his friend to pay me." She laughs. "He knew he was coming to a topless club, and only had 38 dollars to his name."

Remarkable as it may seem, nobody has anything positive to say about Comdex crowds, yet next to nobody wants to go on the record slamming them. Their numbers jack accommodations into the stratosphere, and rental car companies do well by them. But nearly every other service industry - the four-star restaurants bypassed in favor of chili dogs, the valets that get bored waiting for somebody to pull up in a rented Cavalier - all these people are slighted, but still seem reluctant to castigate the conventioneers. This town doesn't have the taste for blood it once did.

If the dancers aren't shy about calling things as they see them, perhaps it's because they're not exactly thrilled with what they perceive as a wasted week.

"I went in (to Cheetahs) Monday night thinking it might be better than average," says Sapphire, "but I have to tell you - when I left at midnight, there were 170 dancers working. I didn't make above my average; that just didn't happen.

"A lot of the girls in the dressing room were complaining; two girls who had come down from Reno were saying, 'I thought there was going to be more money than this.' But there were so many girls! The club won't put a limit on it, because they make $50 off every girl that walks through the door. They're all about quantity, not quality."

Despite the bartender's promise The Comdex quantity at Crazy Horse Too just doesn't happen over the course three bourbons and the DJ pops on Falco for the leggy redhead working the stage - don't turn around, der kommissar's in town!

As I make a beeline for the door, I run into the brunette who gave me the straight dope at the bar.

"Had enough? Are you sure you don't want that dance?"

"Yeah, that's it for me. Going to see my girlfriend."

"Good for you," she smiles. "I wish some of these guys would, too."

"Indeed," I agree, and walk out just as a cabful of Comdexters pulls up to the door. I don't hear what the cabbie says to them, but I see panicked movement in the back seat - and the reluctant pooling of currency. It's gotta be done, fellas.

Be good to the girls. Read our guide to strip club etiquette in our Erotica (http://www.vegas.com/comdex/c_erotica.html) section.

Vegas.com staff writer Geoff Carter (carter@vegas.com) is no longer a sexual titan, difficult though that may be to believe.