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by Eve Wartenberg Condon
So I trucked on over to the Middle East in Cambridge to see the Suicide Girls on Wednesday night. I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was that pierced, tattooed girls with electrical tape over their nipples would be involved. But it was right down the street from my class, I had fifteen bucks, and my choreographer referred to it as “homework” for our own ass-shaking endeavors, so off to Mass Avenue I went.