Now, now, before somebody goes throwing a shoe at me or something (that is the latest in insults, right?) I am not being facetious. Well, maybe a bit, but lemme tell you, that was not just a shameless attention grabbing header.
This last weekend a good friend of mine was celebrating another spring under her belt, and what other way to extol the occasion than a strip club? Yes, there was dinner, and a haunted house, but all that is inconsequential and you’ll see just why in a moment.
We made our way into the heart of Atlanta to a little abode named The Clermont Lounge. Stashed in the lobby of the old hotel bearing the same name, The Clermont is a bar unlike anything I, and likely you, have seen. Ever. Ever. At first arrival the place is small, with a permanent cloud of smoke that hovers just above head level. It is loud. And it is packed. This is not your usual strip club attendance though, but rather a gathering of people of all kinds. It’s the cliff notes of Atlanta’s urbanites. You have it all, but that is still not the interesting part.
Upon taking my first step, and being shoved inside by the bouncer saying “Move from the doorway,” I candidly ignored him and turned to the bar to see something that will forever stay with me. A naked woman! (Insert dramatic theme song here).
No, I’m not that prudish. Did I mention that the naked woman, was a naked sixty-something year old, black woman with a blonde wig that would put Rupaul to shame, shaking her humongous ass which could only be balanced on the bar by her keg-like gut, all while slapping titties swindled around the air not unlike a cowboy lasso? (breathe)… Oh, how could I have NOT mentioned that?
I shit you not. The Claremont lounge is known for that. Her name is Blondie. Along with other strippers who have seen much better days, long, long, long ago, they grace the place in short-shorts that are barely visible (marked by mountains of cellulite) and boobs that are competing for attention with their belly buttons. And guess what? We loved it. We loved all of it. Those women, as certifiably insane as they are, are making a killing. The sheer personality it takes to get out there is mind boggling, but the amount of confidence and fun these ladies (yes, they are ladies) are exuding is enough to blow you away. Pun totally intended. It is deliciously awful.
I left, I tried to leave, but part of me stayed. Left behind in those decrepit walls and thighs. And there is only one thing I can do about it. I must return, to get that little bit of myself back, but this time, I must take my brother, and my cousin, and my bud, and his buds, and as many people as I can imagine, because this task is not one that should be taken by one man alone. That would just be creepy.
That’s it… now back to my regularly scheduled MS editing. G’night.