E-Mail This Article to a Friend Cinderella story, continued

Like any other entertainment venue (though not every strip club), front-row seats at the Slipper come at a higher price. If you’re in spitting distance of the stage, you’re expected to tip in dollar bills. Dancers aren’t shy about enforcing gratuity. Sometimes, they’ll hop offstage in the middle of a pelvic thrust to collect singles from bashful patrons. Other times, they’ll even bark at non-tipping customers from the stage.

One Thursday night, two red-cheeked frat boys are sucking on their longneck bottles and staring clumsily at the naked woman offering them a peek at her privates. They haven’t tipped at all, so she snaps her legs shut, sits on the lip of the stage, and demands, "Are you enjoying the show?" Dumbly, one dude nods. He needs to be more generous, she tells him. No money, no show. To her left, a male bartender smirks. "C’mon, it’s like she’s coin-operated." Red-faced, the jock digs out a five.

Uncomfortable, maybe, but the Slipper trafficks in awkward interactions. Since lap dances are off-limits in Boston, the Slipper’s version of "one-on-one" time with the girls follows the old hustler-club practice of "mixing." Customers can sit with the dancers — who are clothed, but costumed and mingling with the audience in between sets — only if they buy them drinks. The dancers aren’t supposed to have beer, so the starting drink price is $30 for a "rum-and-Diet," while a bottle of champagne costs at least $100 more. Sometimes, if you watch carefully, old guys will rub the dancers’ knees or try to cop a feel, but publicly, that’s as far as it goes.

"It’s better for the girls than lap dancing," confides one Slipper employee. "It’s safer."

Nevertheless, "mixing" is a tricky proposition. Boston Licensing Board regulations specifically forbid employees from asking for drinks from customers. Since "mixing" walks the line of legality, the Glass Slipper racked up four violations in its first three years for offenses like "soliciting drinks" and "soliciting drinks for sex." The bar’s been suspended several times and once, in 1989, it almost lost its license.

More than a decade later, the staff still has to be careful about drink solicitation. Bartenders gingerly have to "suggest" that customers buy cocktails for the dancers, who are technically hired as "independent contractors." Sometimes a dancer will simply announce that she’s thirsty. Whatever the approach, the pitch is plain: buy the woman a drink or she’ll ignore you.

That same Thursday, a bald-pated businessman with a toothy-dentured grin chats up a seasoned stripper, one of the few Slipper dancers with noticeably fake breasts and a jet-black Cleopatra wig. They effortlessly exchange flirty glances while he liquors her up. She even leaves to strip, then returns to his side for another cocktail. But once he decides to settle up, Cleopatra backs off like he’s sprouted horns. Then — poof! — two bouncers materialize. One brusquely shines a penlight on the man’s credit-card receipt while the other menacingly stands behind him. He quickly signs and scurries away.

"It’s amusing to watch the commerce in action and how helpless we are as men, as our wallets shrink by the minute," one semi-regular writes in an e-mail. "A regular can go in there and leave his world outside for an hour and be reminded that what little beauty that is left in the world can be found in the curve of a breast."

DIFFERENT WORLDS

It’s a Monday night at the Slipper. I’ve dragged along a not-so-unwilling date, and we plunk down on two barstools, forking over $9 a drink (even a club soda costs half a Jackson, with tip). In front of us is a ponytailed woman in a track suit and a T-shirt that crows HOT PUSSY. The stage is empty; we’ve come between acts. To my left is a tall, keg-chested man in a pressed dress shirt and pleated khakis. He scans me and beams brightly. "You’re doing this for your boy?" he asks, revealing a thick Irish accent. "God love you. A good girl, you hold onto her."

"She dragged me here," says my companion, who isn’t kidding.

"Know what? I don’t believe that. But that’s a good girl."

Less than a minute later, an invisible DJ who sounds like a phlegmy Barry White introduces the next entertainer as "Jada" and cues up Hole’s "Doll Parts." Dancers choose their own music, which inevitably leads to a jukebox-convulsion of everything from Eminem’s "Ass Like That" to Coldplay’s "Yellow" to Lords of Acid’s "Pussy," in which the female vocalist brags that not only is hers the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen, but compared to hers, yours is "really ugly and mean."

Across the street at Centerfolds, the spring-break-in-Cancún-like performers don’t usually dance to such explicit songs. Instead, their three-song routines tend to be scored by dance-club remixes — and they have a more formulaic, clinical feel. First song, the women strike provocative poses in slinky outfits. Second song, awash in spinning lights, they carefully undo their tops and delicately hang them on a coat rack in the corner of the stage. Third song, the women remove their bottoms, mechanically hanging them on that same coat rack — a gesture that’s about as sensual as a patient changing into a hospital gown.

Also, unlike their counterparts across the street, the dancers at Centerfolds pretend to ignore the dollar bills raining down around them, as if they’re not dropping their drawers for the money. People seated around the stage casually slide singles under a metal railing that demarcates the platform, as if they’re bank customers pushing deposits at a teller. Meanwhile, a thick-necked bouncer with a tiny broom sweeps the greenback confetti into a corner.

There are still other differences between the two neighbors. Centerfolds’s Web site bills itself as "Boston’s only gentleman’s club," while the Glass Slipper not only doesn’t have a Web site, but also doesn’t mind the label "strip club." Centerfolds has a car service; the Slipper staff won’t hold the door for you. Centerfolds has a dress code that dictates no torn jeans or open sandals for men; the Slipper’s dress code, according to its manager, is "Men have to keep their clothes on."

When I called Centerfolds for comment, general manager Steve Hurd referred me to the corporate office. Meanwhile, every conversation I’ve ever had with someone from the Slipper has taken place out front on the butt-crushed sidewalk.