Bleu was a cool cat. He was born and raised in Atlanta, with a few years out in Mississippi under his belt. He worked in the hip hop industry, but he didn’t like to say it.
“Going to the strip club and to church go hand in hand down here,” he said.
Bleu’s skin was almost like his name, blue-black with a brown sugar glaze. His eyes were soft too, and his gaze was warm—just like his voice. I averted my eyes to my car window to calm the warmth in my cheeks.
“So you’ve never gone to a strip club with a girl before, have you?” I ask, looking over to the driver’s seat.
“Nah, this is the first time now that I think about it,” Bleu says, laughing as he rubs his chin.
I was spending the week in Atlanta, and with the help of my gracious cousin and her generous husband, I was sent an escort for my trip to “fantasyland.” Having Bleu was a relief because Strokers wasn’t a spot I could go to alone. It was a mix between the neighborhood titty bar and a rundown version of the “Cheers” set. Bleu explained to me that it was T.I.’s favorite gentlemen’s club, but you wouldn’t guess celebrities rolled through there given its modest surroundings.
The women were lovely. The first dancer twirled on the rotating pole like a “Snack Pack” girl and gave a round of wet kisses to the audience when she was done. She liked me so much that she grabbed my breast when Bleu looked down at his beer. What a doll.
Another dancer kept company with Bleu and me for almost an hour. From her expenses at Victoria Secret to management’s pesky rules about bringing in outside food, the Raven-Simone look-a-like had plenty to say about the downsides to working at a strip club. She seemed happy to have female customer to vent to.
The last girl that danced for us looked like the happiest exotic dancer I’d ever met. Even in the dim lighting, her dark skin glowed against her gold bikini. She had washboard abs I would die for.
There was something about going to the strip club in Atlanta that had a slightly different feel in New York. Maybe it was the music; I didn’t expect to see women twerk to Prince and the Isley Brothers. Maybe it was hearing the southern twang among the chatter at the bar. Whatever it was, I found myself wanting to see more of what Atlanta’s ratchet nightlife had to offer.