The waitresses transform the bar top into a dance floor or maybe a cat walk as one blonde dances around it, flirting with the men she passes, pointing to her cheek as the DJ plays a cover of Prince’s “Kiss.” A man anxiously takes her picture and then helps her down from the bar. The staff mingle and flirt, changing attire and attitude throughout the evening, as they liven the night and humidify the already hot mood. Another waitress in a slinky cocktail dress is dancing on a table. A brunette waitress in a casual jeans and button-up shirt dances nearby. Then they switch tables, appealing to new crowds and striking new poses under the pyramid-shaped lights that dangle from the ceiling, which change color almost as often as the bar top, transforming them, chameleon-style, from waitress to model to dancer to center of attention—one that quenches a different kind of thirst.

Across the street, at New York-New York’s Coyote Ugly, the mood is more Gila monster than chameleon as the blunt waitresses in jeans, spiky belts and mini-shirts bark orders at the lively crowd, rewarding the brave souls who dance on the bar with shots of liquor poured directly into their mouths. Disobey, and you may get more than you bargained for. “Michelle was shy and decided not to take her bra off,” scoffs the Coyote. “That means you have to get down on your knees and take five shots.” Though the young woman in the flowing black-and-white hippie-style shirt really doesn’t appear to be wearing a bra, she kneels, good-naturedly. “One,” chants the crowd. “Two.” By the time she hits three her head jerks to the side. Face wrinkles, nose crinkles. But she holds it down and takes the remaining two before leaving the stage. Then “Are you Gonna Be My Girl” comes on, a group of five dancing women jump onstage—savoring the shots—and the night bounces on. Two waitresses are dancing on a side bar. One is on the main bar. They’re barking orders at the men and pouring shots for the women, and have complete command over the bar as they swivel their hips and stomp their boots. The best is yet to come, when five of the Coyotes mount the stage together and perform a routine, dancing and occasionally scowling at unruly customers, in sync.

In Coyoteland you do what they tell you. They’re known for their pushy, New York attitude here, and the dancing and singing and chastising is meant to be motivational, interactive. Smile when they spray you with water. Dance when they order it and drink when you’re told. Across the dark-wood dancehall, where there’s no place to sit and bars line the perimeter, bras hang from lights and posters and anything else they can hang from. Panties, too, dangle amid the New- York themed decorations (“Ladies, if your panties are too tight, take them off!” orders one server), from the window painted with New York skyscrapers to the license plates. Joan Jett or Maroon 5 or Kid Rock blare from the speakers, and grown men trot around the bar like they’re riding a horse just because the waitress told them to. And in this new, twisting world of Vegas clubs, the women rule the floor. When they come stomping, you better watch your toes.