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Sunday, Nov 8, 2009
I went to a strip club with my boyfriend, but I got more of a thrill hanging with the girls in the ladies' room than he did out front.
Sep 24, 2003 | I had an English boyfriend once who took me to Atlanta's legendary strip joint the Gold Club on our first date. It was a clichéd alcoholic swirl of whipped cream-basted hard bodies, beery frat boys, dollar bills peeking out of lacy garter belts, and suburban husbands in from Lilburn or Smyrna, already rehearsing Sunday's confession.
Of course, the early-morning hours found us across the street at the Waffle House, scarfing down cheese eggs for $2.99.
I imagine most women would have been outraged. But me, I felt initiated. I had taken part in the delicious rite enjoyed by legions of conventioneers in Atlanta. I only wished I'd had a wedding band to slip off my finger and a tie to unloosen. Actually, that's not true. The conventioneer's experience is a man's experience, and the main reason I enjoyed it had everything to do with being a woman. That's because the real fun at the Gold Club wasn't found in those murky backrooms where various celebrities supposedly got their dicks sucked. Maybe it's because I'm not a celebrity and I don't have a dick, but for me, the real fun was in the bathroom.
You see, at the Gold Club, the few female patrons had to share the bathroom with the strippers. This meant you had to walk through their dressing area in order to find the toilet.
Sneaking into the backstage world was fascinating. As I turned the corner to get a full view, I saw a topless woman noisily munching on a fat hamburger. She belched afterward. Another woman was adjusting a G-string, lamenting the tiny bit of cellulite on her right cheek. Another was doing paperwork of some sort in spiked boots. Another woman, clad only in a tattered Aerosmith T-shirt, shouted, "All right, which one of you filthy bitches didn't clean the shower? Looks like a pubic hair emporium in there!"
It was fantastic. I hung around there for as long as I could, listening to stories about deadbeat dads, techniques on maintaining balance while dancing in 6-inch heels, and where to buy cheap wallpaper. I didn't want to leave.
When I finally returned to my seat, one of the women I'd gossiped with backstage came slinking onto the floor. Even as she grasped a brass pole and started her rather graphic and limber stunts, I felt a certain solidarity with her. It was as if we were in 10th grade and had just shared a joint behind the gym. Now we were back in history class together, grinning slyly across the room at our secret. She wasn't a sex goddess -- she ate burgers and belched. She knew where to get a good deal on wallpaper.
It was strangely comforting to have this vantage point. The limber Burger King vixen and I were in this thing together. Even though I was a spectator, I wasn't leering at her, judging her, or drooling on myself. I wasn't getting turned on. I wondered if she was curious about what I got out of the deal. But when she winked at me, I knew we were both in on the joke.
My Gold Club experience triggered a strip club enchantment. Over the next three months, I visited nearly every strip club in Atlanta. I ventured bravely into the obvious ones with names like the Cheetah and the Pink Pony. I progressed on to a place that featured naked men on one side and naked women on the other. One of my gay friends accompanied me. He took one look at a naked woman opening and closing her legs, announced, "Look -- it's talking!" then quickly scurried to the men's side.
The same friend later escorted me to Swingin' Richard's, a gay men's strip club. As the only woman in the joint, I was a novelty, like a pair of Yosemite Sam mudflaps on a Miata. As such, I attracted a lot of attention and got more than my share of hugs from sweaty, beefy men wearing nothing but baby oil and chaps. "You look just like Grace Kelly!" they cooed. "No. That's not right. Sarah Michelle Gellar! No ... that's not it either. Charlene Tilton. You know, Lucy Ewing from 'Dallas'!" I left soon after, to avoid the downward spiral of comparisons. I feared Pia Zadora was next.
