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When Larry Flynt opened this skin-and-sin joint in 2004, he made sure many a Beaver Buck was invested: High ceilings encourage trapeze-like acts on the main stage's pole, while on two lofted balconies, Hustler honeys shake their tailfeathers atop transparent floors to the delight of the suits and occasional rock-and-rollers in the leather seats nearby and below. In the spring of 2006, to counteract the drab carpeting and the dated airbrushes of centerfolds, the owners unveiled a rooftop and a new wing of private rooms that evoke Caesar’s Palace. Big spenders can now walk down a shabbily decorated marble hallway into one of a handful of loosely themed fantasy suites where they'll find faux stone walls in the dungeon, tapestries, and billowing drapes in another room, and—more to the point—a leather couch in each. The roof, meanwhile, is decorated with Doric columns and not much else: The view of the West Side Highway wouldn't inspire anyone to propose to his girlfriend, but that's just fine for the cigar puffers who aren't thinking of marriage when they're staring at the busty barmaid. — Daniel Maurer