The Arizona Republic
Jul. 1, 2004 12:00 AM
For all the time spent agonizing over my visit to the Pussycat Lounge (the place has a reputation for silicone and Scottsdale attitude), I am finally here. Dressed in a low-cut black shirt with my favorite jeans and heels, I feel confident, sexy and ready to take on the Pussycat. And what happens? I trip and fall attempting a grand entrance.
Figures. Grace is not one of my strong suits. Composure regained, I strut the rest of the way inside.
There are no windows and the sign out front reads simply "PCL." You'd miss it if you didn't know what you were looking for . . . and if there wasn't a gorgeous bouncer dressed in black standing out front. Inside is a large open room, with cushy seating around the perimeter. The bar is prominent - front and center - and the whole place has a sort of crimson glow.
I had imagined the inside to look more like a nudie bar (and I'm not ashamed to admit I know enough to make the comparison), but the lounge's two dancing poles are nondescript and off to the side. "People love the poles and they seem to become a magnet for people the more they drink," bartender Jamie Contreras says.
Between the poles is a swing chair, which will soon host a cute couple sipping martinis. On each side of the bar is a slightly haunting image of a digital seductress staring at you from behind a row of candles. If you watch long enough, she'll blow them out one by one.
The most notable thing in the room is the large photograph on the wall directly behind the bar. It's a sultry midriff-baring cowgirl giving the finger. There's that attitude - but it seems to be an example of the clientele rather than the staff. The bar crew is friendly and attentive. They actually smile a lot, which I appreciate in a place with a high swank factor. The Pussycat seems to attract a surprisingly wide range of people, from suited businessmen to a steady younger crowd. Tonight, there's a large group of men and women wearing white T-shirts and carrying felt-tip pens. Turns out it's a "T-shirt graffiti" party, where the goal is to go from bar to bar and have people write random (and mostly unprintable) things on the shirts. The back of one gal's T says, "Can't touch this," with an arrow pointing south. Clever.
I chat up as many people as I can, and most of them are pleasant and charming. So if a clumsy girl like me can make it at the Pussycat, I suppose anyone can. But watch out for that first step.