Oh boy are you missing out on a cultural experience.
The notorious Clermont Lounge in Atlanta GA, The only strip club that’s actually fun:
The perpetual stench of Chesterfield smoke and used beer. Shadowy corners of wood paneling and peeling ruby velour barely obscuring the gaunt black man in the ill fitting jacket and fedora taking notes on the jiggling rear inches from his nose.
A cattle trough along the wall in the men’s. Crumbling and stained tiles hanging overhead. The Christmas twinkle lights.
A jukebox from the Carter administration. A subtle gelatinous sheen on everything as if from an early Cronenberg film…
Crooked wigs and tables. Breast augmentations seemingly performed behind a convenience store. Rouge.
Pocked shins, C section scars, bad limps, bingo wings, incomplete yet sincere smiles.
The table of bellowing dykes. Chaps, Chain wallets.
Madame Blondie with that huge keloid that will crush that empty PBR tall boy between her breasts for your pleasure and a few slightly damp Dollar notes. Swapping dirty stories with that anorexic from Winder.
I’ve entertained clients, danced with co workers at 4 AM, been bought dances by my girlfriend, wretched, talked and laughed with friends and total strangers as I soaked in the total Atlantaness of it all.
I haven’t been this homesick in quite a while…