During a 2004 campaign for county commissioner, Redner got into an argument with a conservative guest on a cable talk show and called him "fat." The man stalked off the set, and then tossed a chair at Redner.
He filed another federal lawsuit against Hillsborough County after it passed an ordinance refusing to recognize gay pride events. He "came out" in a 2005 court filing, which was seen as a strategic move to gain standing. He says he has never had a homosexual relationship but is "gay in my mind."
Growing up in the House of Redner wasn't easy. He has five children with four different women, two of whom he married. His daughter, Teresa Redner-Maida, remembers being teased about her father at school. She says classmates weren't allowed to come over to her house. But by the time Redner's grandson, Kyle Burns, was growing up, nobody was shocked.
Both wound up working at Redner Enterprises, which is housed in a warehouse around the corner from the Mons Venus. Burns, who also worked on his grandfather's political campaigns, says he hopes to go to law school.
Through all the court fights and unsuccessful political campaigns, Redner amassed a fortune. He estimated his wealth at $18 million five years ago in an interview with the St. Petersburg Times (now the Tampa Bay Times). He is reluctant to talk about money these days, other than to say the recession has reduced business at the Mons Venus by about half. He is branching out into other areas, investing in the Cigar City Brewery, which operates out of the warehouse and is run by his son Joey.
Redner would like to protest -- and perhaps even get arrested -- at the Republican National Convention, but he will be out of town. The Association of Club Executives is hosting its own convention in Las Vegas and plans to honor Redner, who will give the keynote address.
Memorable convention moments
House moms
While the boss is away, Lorry Kasner will mind the Mons. She's the day manager and has worked with Redner for 26 years. "He's a very smart man," she says. "Everything I know is from him. This is my world."
Kasner, who says she lost 50 pounds following Redner's raw vegan diet, started dancing at strip clubs when she was 19. Her father was a traveling evangelist, so for the first seven years she told her parents she cleaned houses for a living.
She was a single mom, and for a while her parents cared for her son. But after less than a year as a Mons Venus dancer, Kasner started making enough money to raise him herself. She bought a two-story house with a pool in a nice part of town. Best of all, she could work only when she wanted.
"I knew what I had. And I knew what other people didn't have," she says. "I see people struggle and work 40 hours a week, or 60 hours a week, and not have what I had dancing four days a week."
Club owner Joe Redner gets a back massage from Lorry Kasner at Mons Venus.
Club owner Joe Redner gets a back massage from Lorry Kasner at Mons Venus.
John Nowak/CNN
Now she is management, and part of her job requires making sure the dancers are presentable and the rules are followed: no drugs, no prostitution, no liquor, no smoking inside, no touching down there. The Mons also differs from other clubs in a big way. There are no private VIP rooms. Lap dances take place out in the open.
Most clubs have house moms overseeing the dancers. Leaving men in charge of those details strikes even the most jaded pros as creepy. Strippers work the clubs as independent contractors, in effect renting space on the stage. Some clubs take a healthy cut of the tips and lap dance money and tack on fines and fees. One charges dancers $50 if they put their pointy stiletto heels on the seat cushions.
Redner says he makes all his money at the door -- $20 a head on a regular night, $50 during the Super Bowl -- and doesn't take it away from the dancers. The way he sees it, happy strippers make for happy customers.
Half a dozen exotic dancers chatter and joke as they come into the Mons dressing room. Kasner checks their hair, nails, makeup and costumes. No bathing suits permitted, sexy lingerie only.
Time for the booty inspection. Since these dancers perform in the altogether, total body grooming is mandatory. No nubs, please.
"Did you shave?" Kasner asks as a pair of dancers bend over. Even though two men -- CNN's photographer and videographer -- are doing their thing in the dressing room, the strippers are unfazed. Their attitude seems clinical, a byproduct of years spent swaying and jiggling and undressing for strangers.
In another locker room across town, house mom Wendy Karafas hands out patches of flesh-colored surgical tape, which she has cut into pasties. They serve liquor here at Thee DollHouse, so dancers have to cover their nipples and thongs must be two fingers wide at that key Y intersection. There are plenty of private VIP booths, but the house rules are strict.
"No touching. No grinding. It's a clean club," Karafas says.
At 55, she has the warm, soothing look of your best friend's mom. She has worked at banks and law firms, and was making and selling crystal jewelry in tanning salons when strippers started buying her creations. She was invited to Thee DollHouse and set up shop in the locker room.
"I'd never been in a gentleman's club before," she recalls. "I came in here and I was scared to death. But I was welcomed with open arms. I love it here."
Eventually she was asked to be the house mom. There is a lot of joking and laughter in this locker room.
A stripper named Sasha balances on 8-inch, clear Plexiglas heels and turns her backside toward Karafas, who is seated by the door. "OK, Mom, I'm ready to go," she says, submitting to a thong inspection.
Shoes, check. Nails, check. Garter, check. Fishnets, check. Tape, check. Hair and makeup, check and check. She's good to go.
Sasha's sister, Ya-Ya, bounds in, tells Karafas a dirty joke and spots this correspondent.
She licks my face like a puppy and throws a long, fishnet-clad leg over my shoulder. I am standing up, but I think I've just gotten my first lap dance.
