Anyone who gave the Cheetah a poor review is a fool, and more likely than not, one of the ugliest people you've ever seen. These poor girls, night after night, have to deal with SOME rube that thinks he's special just because he showed up. Half the time he didn't shower and didn't have the common courtesy to shave the mustache he started sporting in '78. Of course these dirtbags are going to sound off, and any piece of tail without an Adam's Apple is going to interest them, they go home wondering why they didn't just use the money on a handle of Gentleman Jack and the Glory Hole at the back of their local BP. I spent my 25th birthday at the Cheetah, and the girls made me feel important. They were beautiful, not crass at all, and respected that I could not look away from the perfection that embodied each and every one, except for my one complaint: David Arquette.
Now David Arquette isn't so much a complaint as he is sort of the joy buzzer thrown in this cornicopia of pure wistful introspection. I don't know what her name really was, but in between Octavia and Bridgette, David would put his leg high upon our VIP couch and offer a dance. My friends and I couldn't stifle our laughter as we called over the massage girl whose lap I could have rested my fevered brow upon indefinately.
Pros: Everything
Cons: David Arquette (I'm sorry David, I don't mean it, a girls gotta try, and we respect your effort.)
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