THE CLUB BACCHUS EXPERIENCE by Stewart Campbell

For those of you who aren’t from the greater Wooster area, Club Bacchus is one of those mythically sketchy, but very public, places particular to small towns. One of those places that everyone knows about, but few have ever gone to. Despite the strong anti-vice sentiment of the town (the adult video store in Wooster, previously located on Liberty near Beall, was closed down after months if not years of protest that this sort of establishment is not to be supported in our "Godly" town. "Jesus doesn't like sex" some signs read) Club Bacchus persisted and rumors of its seedinees have inspired legions of legends. As a group of five strip-bar virgins, some of us writers for Head, we decided we had to visit. Last Monday, the 22nd, was the night of the premier of “Grindhouse Massacre”, a B-horror flick produced by the local Rottweiler Productions and starring some of the girls who work at Bacchus. Malt liquor in hand to act as a social, and intellectual, lube, we headed out.

After driving around the wrong side of town for 20 minutes, the car finally pulled into the tiny little parking lot of Club Bacchus. The first sign of play (some may say foul play) came in the form of a rather stocky man who stared us down from the cab of his truck until we were far enough away for him to resume whatever he was doing with his special lady friend in the front seat. The first step through those tinted windows was like a time warp. The black lights reflecting off of the stainless steel poles was reminiscent of a knock-off Studio 54. The cloud of cigarette smoke brought us back to the days before the smoking ban. The focus of the room was a slick, wooden stage surrounded by VIP chairs for the customers who wanted the pay-per-view experience. After we gave our ID's and got our wristbands from the shaky doorman we were greeted by stares and a silence that made me feel like I had interupted a religious ceremony of neither our time nor place. The men's bathroom consisted of both a urinal and a toilet behind a swinging door with no locks, but just enough space for a mid-show quickie. Strip clubs, I soon realized, took a particular brand of courage which I felt I would have been incapable of mustering had it been a show-girl kind of night.

After we were done bartering with the guy next to us for a King Cobra (he wanted to recapture his childhood), the movie started. The Grindhouse Massacre, which could have easily been another tit fest, turned out to be a surprisingly feminist commentary on the sexual exploitation of women within B-horror. A busty blonde named Mistress Midnight has just been told that her movies aren't selling. No one, from her producer (and agent) who threatens to drop her, to the director who claims he can't push her movies, believes that B-horror film can be a success without at least a little skin. After commiserating with a quartet of goth rockers, Midnight takes it upon herself to torture and kill her director and every actress in town who contributes to the cheapening of the genre she loves so much, making a home movie of the acts. There were a few especially gory scenes, but none beat the first murder. Midnight makes a deal with her director: She promises to sleep with him, if he promises to push every last one of her previous movies. When he comes over to her house later that evening, she makes him use some of her pre-made, acid-laced lube. The director starts complaining that the lube burns and goes into the bathroom. We still can’t figure out the director’s official cause of death, but we got to see his penis disintegrate in his hands. The ‘Oooooooos!!’ from the men in the audience were deafening.

As great as the film was, the crowd was a lot better. Thirty minutes and 40 ounces later, everybody was friends. Laura was engrossed in a conversation with three guys about their explosive diarrhea, Meredith was in the bathroom having a heart to heart with a redhead named Tabitha about her relationship, and Paul was trying to catch the eye of the Lowry cafeteria worker sitting at the bar. In the afterglow of surviving the infamous Club Bacchus we had a dance party in one of our dorms. Being back in the comfort of my room, surrounded by friends, it dawned on me how uneasy I had felt at the club. Seeing these women, these strippers, sitting at tables with their friends nursing a beer, reminded me that had I done some things differently, I could be in a place very similar to theirs. I once heard a story about a stripper who was paying her way through mortician school. Everyone's got a story to tell, but some you may not enjoy hearing.

SUBSCRIPTION by Craig Ruse

the old men and

the retards come

in the early mornings

to buy their

jerkoff magazines

while no one else

is around.

the old men try

to hide and stare

at the ground.

stacking their shame

between Guns and Ammo

and Sports Illustrated.

the retards come in

tired and smiling

from the night shift

at the grocery store.

they comment on the weather,

and politely ask

for a Hustler.

Plug and Play

by Liz Miller

There’s an exciting new way to “sync” with your iPod. The latest buzz in autoerotic pleasure is the OhMiBod vibrator and it’s completely compatible with your other favorite pocket rocket, the iPod.

Again, that’s an iPod plus a vibrator, not to be confused with the iVibe (another kind of vibrator that doesn’t hook up to your iPod). It’s kind of brilliant, and it seems to be catching on quickly. That is, catching on for everyone except Apple.

Jolene, an Apple customer service representative, told this reporter that she’d never heard of the techno-toy. In fact, our conversation went a little bit like this:

Jolene: Thank you for calling Apple, my name is Jolene, how may I help you today?

Liz: Well, um, I’m looking for an iPod toy, and I was hoping you could help me.

Jolene: Sure, are you talking about the iCat or the iDog?

[Those are the cute plastic creatures that bop their heads to the beat of the music, kind of like a more sophisticated dancing flower, if you remember those.]

Liz: Kind of, but it’s a different kind of animal. I’m looking for a vibrator.

Jolene: Uh, what.

Liz: A vibrator. You know, a sex toy. It works like those iDogs, except you insert into your favorite erogenous zone and it vibrates with the beat of the music.

Jolene: Oh, no then. Oh god no then.

Liz: So, you can’t help me today?

Jolene: Oh no, I um, I don’t think we sell that! But when you find it, you call me back and let me know!

Hopefully she’ll spread the word to the rest of the folks at Apple. Hell, maybe Steve Jobs will introduce it as the next Macworld convention, right next to the iPhone 2.

If the idea of throbbing bass, pulsating beats— oh yeah, and a vibrator— gets you going, too, you’ll want to check out this product. To enhance your experience while you, uh, pump out the jams, OhMiBod has even designed accessories to complement the vibrator. There’s everything from a garter belt to a special sleeve that allegedly will add a “softer, velvety” side to things.

No iPod? No problem; you won’t be left out. Even though OhMiBod’s Web site says it is specially designed for the iPod, it will work well with any device that has a 3.5mm audio out option (headphone jack). Even your computer. Or, you know, your car. But they don’t recommend it.


What I’d recommend: a night alone, a playlist full of fun songs (Peaches, Spank Rock and Girl Talk would probably do the job), a bottle of lube and, of course, OhMiBod.

For more information, including the OhMiBlog (testimonials) and “Club Vibe” (a place to access playlists that will get you really rocking and rolling) visit: OhMiBod.com

*Remember to give the same care to OhMiBod that you would with any other toy. Keep it clean, and for fuck’s sake, use a condom if you’re planning to share.