Atlanta male strippers. And a sugardaddy.
I’m looking at the USA in a different way after spending most of 2021 in Africa. I see how deeply African the the country is and I start to wonder about the majority African American cities in the US. First I visit Detroit. Then Minneapolis, to soak up some of the reasons for its flashpoint of a new civil rights movement.
And then, Atlanta. Not the largest margin majority black city, but the most famous. Perhaps because the black South is less diluted by the urge to be British than the North, not as pulled by the power of the Spanish to the West.
Whatever it is, Atlanta scratches that itch I have that Africa gave me. Africa is full of creepy crawlies. Full of things both literal and magickal that burrow under the skin and lay eggs. I’m now in the future of that, dealing with all the broad and cutthroat by culling birth that is happening under my skin.
Africa run deep.
And here I am, unfolding more just how African is my birth country, the good ol’ USA.
So I come on a lark, deciding I’ll visit World of Coca-Cola, which I do, and it horrifies me. At the same time I buy tickets for that I decide I need some balance, and think about other things I can reserve in Atlanta online.
As is my usual, I find the best restaurant for my tastes, one that will cost me some $165 plus Ubers. I am tickled by the name, Bacchanalia.
I then also reserve the Black Diamond male revue, which turns out to be the same as the competing one I’m looking at, Hunk-o-Mania. This is not the first time I’ve experienced the male entertainer monopoly, one company that appears as multiple competing companies online to get people into their choice. I want to see me some Atlanta male strippers.
But it is the night before that, and time for my fancy dinner. And so, I put on a little black dress and head to the fancy restaurant. Have myself the vegetarian tasting menu. At the main course, a well-dressed elderly gentleman sits down beside me and begins to drink wine. He speaks to me and to the women next to him occasionally. Being friendly. We are, after all, seated rather close, and ostensibly there’s still some sort of pandemic raging on. Best to know one’s neighbors.
He only drinks what the sommelier recommends. When the sommelier starts to use words like “body” and “nose”, the elderly man replies
“I don’t know any of those words, just give me something good.”
I’m drinking Mezcal. The sommelier knows it as well, but not as well as I do. And so I have a chance to teach my dining neighbor about it.
The staff call him “Doctor.”
The pretense of simplicity interests me. He’s successful and modest at the same time. I sniff that he is not white like Southern gentlemen are white. And I’m not wrong. He’s Sicilian. And a New Yorker.
He tries to impress me with ideas from books and media. I smile. I am too young to read of others’ experiences. Too busy having my own, still.
We speak of our lives. He is direct, and open. He tells me he is retired. Has given up a world-renowned practice of gynecological oncology with nine other doctors working underneath him. Originally from the Lower East Side – the same place my mama lived when my daddy found her. Now he has dark gray hair and a slower pace and for 82 he’s doing damn well I’d say.
He found his wife in Vietnam, where he went for some months but ended up for years, during the war, just before I was born. His wife is American, but educated in France – which of course explains what she was doing in Vietnam. Being colonial.
The stories of Saigon as a foriegn surgeon during the war have me rapt. I share with him what Saigon was like during my recent visit.
He drinks three glasses of wine and orders some of the tasting menu a la carte. He touches me frequently. Tells me I’m pretty. Tells me I’m smart.
When he pays for his bill I pay for mine, he throws down a gold AmEx and I one-up him with a Platinum business AmEx with a small smile. Truth is though, I’m broke. When he offers me a ride home I take it. It saves me $35 on an Uber. I wish he’d paid for my dinner.
I spend the ride weighing my options. Milk him for all he’s worth over the next 36 hours I am in town? Skip the Atlanta male strippers and suck his cock for as much as I can get?
When he touches me, grabs my hand in the car, I balk.
“Now now, you’re a married man. I don’t touch married men.” I say, pulling my hand away. He repeats what I’ve said, with mirth. I think he knows as well as I do that I do, indeed, touch married men if I want to. I do any damn thing I want to. Maybe if he’d paid for my dinner…
He drives, well, like an 82-year-old. I pray to all the voodoo gods of West Africa that I am sure must inhabit Atlanta.
He tries again and even requests a kiss, which I don’t refuse. Somehow, though, I don’t want to go there. I don’t think in the end it has anything to do with his age, though it may well have everything to do with his age. My clit simply needs a vibe, and I didn’t quite get it.
I do get the vibe the next night though. Staring up into the eyes of a man I’ve paid to give me the experience. And oh does he.
I don’t see the gynecological oncologist again. I opt, instead, for an evening out alone, which ends up being the best time I’ve had in months.
Arriving at the strip joint via Uber there’s a bunch of half naked, buff dudes in the parking lot smoking weed. I just slow my roll and grin. Take in the scene. A few of them pumping iron. Most of them just talking. Some in costume. One spinning a fire staff. All these Atlanta male strippers here to show me a good time.
I end up seated with Latoya’s birthday group, the only white girl in a group of black ones out to see a group of black Atlanta male strippers and one white one take off their clothing and shake their ass.
And they do, acrobatically.
We’re seated right at the back of the stage area, and have a behind view of most of what goes on. I’m sitting next to Bird, perhaps called so because she is the petite one of the group. The room is not what I would call “petite” on average.
I have watched the Magic Mike movies and the Chocolate City movies, on bored evenings between fun in London last year. Something struck me in these about male entertainers and of course the difference in white clubs, Latin clubs, and black clubs. Since then wanted to go out to a club with men shaking their thing. And here I am.
It is not my first experience with male strippers, or strip in general.
My first experience with male strippers was during college. My roommate was Costa Rican and took me occasionally to the events that the Latina group on campus would throw. Well. They raised up money and bought themselves a private male entertainer. THAT was my first experience with a male stripper. At age 17, in a room full of more than 30 screaming Latinas, A Chippendales dressed dude came in and was torn apart by them. It was eye opening.
Heterosexual or gay inclusive male strip is the only part of the sex for money game that doesn’t feel disgusting to me. In the female strip environment, there’s something odd and gross about the power dynamics. That there is no touching allowed feels strange and says to the audience “you are dirty and wrong for wanting to touch”.
The first thing the first Atlanta male stripper does is grab two women’s hands and put them on his cock. And the whole room is hollering, and the women are laughing and having a great time, and it’s all okay.
There is no consent. We consent by being in the room. It’s made clear by the MC from the beginning “there are no rules”. Don’t like it? Don’t come. And so, a bunch of sassy black women from Atlanta, and me, and one table full of drunk, lesbian white trash, get shitty and watch Atlanta male strippers take off their clothing. It gets rowdy. They don’t call it the Dirty South for nothin’.
The food is fucking amazing, samosas and green fire sauce. The drinks are weak. The men are hotter than the sauce.
I watch the men focus on everyone but me, and I’m kind of okay with it. The recent time in Africa has made me think about black bodies even more philosophically. And here I am using them for my sexual satisfaction.
Because they are hotter than white bodies?
No. I like bodies of all shades. But the culture of the black strip club is superior. The black audience is what makes it better, not the black performers. The inclusiveness, the lack of repression, and the music are all indicative of black culture. There are women who weigh upwards of 300 pounds who get up to dance and shake and twerk and the rest of the club cheers for them and rains money and support on them.
One of the drunk white women trips on a prop and falls and immediately there are three black women there to help her up and dust her off. The kind of confidence and sisterhood and comradery that I see there in this Southern American, black environment is superior.
The ability to dig in and enjoy and emote about an experience full body without repression and mentality getting in the way? Well, that’s Africa, baby.
And then we reach the very end of the show, when Full Throttle, the Atlanta male stripper I think is the hottest, comes striding up to me. The man beelines for me. I don’t have time to think about power dynamics, because we’re tangling immediately.
He is shirtless, short dreadlocks, camo pants, ripped and cut, and we pantomime a slow, erotic, clothed sex scene over the next fifteen minutes that has the lights come up in the club while our eyes are locked on each other.
Half is caught on camera by Bird, one of the birthday group, screaming “I’m a motherfucking film producer” as I ham it up with him, both of us well aware where the camera is.
After all, I have two degrees in film production. I hand her the camera knowing she’ll do me justice and she does.
(Want to see that footage? Support me on Patreon for 10 months at $50 or 5 months at $100 or 1 month at $500 and I will send it to you)
I’m high on the electric energy in this man coming up to me confidently. I see the flicker of male doubt in his eyes still, and that gets me wet instantly. I’m that hot, am I? That you still wonder if I want you. You, who the whole room craves?
He reads me like a coverless book. In one look he knows I want it slow, intense, sensual, and he devours my ego with grace. Stands above me looking down into my eyes. Singing the song to me. Dancing on me, grinding on me, turning around and using me for furniture as other women stuff dollar bills in his waistband while his ass swivels to the ground.
Above me again. Breathing on me. The plague crosses my mind and I let that thought go to the “worth it” pile. Sweating on me. He smells good. His scent isn’t masked. He’s clean. Strong. I run my hands over him and caresses my arms, reassuring me it’s okay to touch.
And oh do I, stroke his chest, run my fingertips over the washboard abs. Trace his delt/tricep tie-ins. Oh this magnificent creature on my lap. And then he turns me over, lays me down, and shows me how he’d dance horizontally.
I love every fucking moment.
The club is emptying. The lights are up and bright. I sit up and stuff the rest of the money I brought with me into his pants before telling him he’s amazing and running out of the club to catch my Cinderella Uber (one that I ordered in advance just to prevent me from going home with Atlanta male strippers).
Part of a series of Hot Sex I Didn’t Have: