Jersey Faces Revisited: Ariana
Ari
at Bar H, Hazlet, NJ
A reprint of a February 1990 article by Sophie
I came here tonight for several reasons. First off to write again about Ari, one of my favorite dancers. Second, to visit this bar in South Jersey (or the Jersey Shore, whichever geographical definition you prefer) that hasn’t been advertising in Mentertainment.
As you know, it is advertising revenue that keeps the magazine going.
So, I’m in this bar on Saturday early evening: not the most crowded night of the week. I have a few words with Ari, then she has to go on stage. When she steps up, the guys start to cheer. I am not surprised: Ari is one of the most beautiful women in the industry. Dark curly long hair, aristocratic features with an unbelievable amount of wild sexuality—her body is lean and flexible, her dancing is animated and designed to turn you on and send you home to your old lady for some unexpectedly satisfying time.
Ari is wearing a torn tank-top and white g-string.
A pretty and sharp-looking blond dancer named Alexis walks up to acknowledge the magazine and me. I smile, we shake hands, I thank her and off she goes with a rolled-up Mentertainment. Dancers are my strongest allies. I am happy most dancers like Mentertainment, and know that we are for them, not against them. Some of them hate us. They say we talk dirty about dancing. They say they just dance up there and they are not there to induce sexual feelings and thoughts. That happens totally independently from what they do, actually against their wishes. They are trying to indicate that they are paid 3-600 dollars a day to dance artistically. Sure.
It is certainly harder to dance well in certain bars and in certain hours—the fifteen lone customers can’t be called a crowd. But Ari, at least nowadays, can go on enthusiasm alone. She jumps, spreads her lean legs, leans back from the pole, goes to take the tips, and smiles, smiles, smiles. Her black hair, tanned skin, white-as-pearl teeth break up the lazy hour.
Ari comes to my part of the bar, she pours some cold water on her tank-top, her skin is immediately covered with sexy bumps. Goose-bumps? Some of them. I prepare a dollar for tip, I want to try that experience too. As she takes the money I accidentally touch her warm-wet body. I pull my hand away. Her skin feels velvety and full of life. My hands remember the touch for a long time. I understand frequent tippers. They must be masochistic in a way—torture and pleasure...
The giant-screen projection TV is tuned to Channel 13, a documentary on Josephine Baker, famous black cabaret and burlesque star, is on. How appropriate.
Ari gets off, I can’t believe it’s been half-an-hour. I am going back to the Ladies’ Room to continue our conversation.
I am surprised. She is not tall, and on stage she looks tall. Tiny, fragile, intelligent, very sexy, very hot. Everything that she does, the way she does it, comes from being a Woman. “I’ve slowed down a bit, I used to be even wilder...” she says. I look at her and imagine her wilder, younger, running, breaking hearts, her own heart as well. I am glad she has grown up a bit.
Works in a doctor’s office during the day (she runs it), dances four nights a week. Her fans are countless. She works out to keep in shape: lifts weight, goes to dance classes. She is straight, doesn’t even drink: “health reasons, nervous energy.” she says. Out to entertain you, and to build a future for herself. Ari.
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