[Surgeon General’s Warning: If you do not have a sense of humor, are prone to short outbursts, or find naughty tids and bits offensive … this post might not be for you!]
You know, there is nothing redeemable about what’s about to happen. It’s going to cost too much, it’s going to be too hard to remember in the morning, and there is absolutely ZERO chance of me “meeting someone.” What’s worse, my mom reads this damn thing! [HI MOM!] I am but a humble man, one who is way too susceptible to that rhetorical question: “Hey, we going to the ____ tonight?” The blank in this case was none other than the Pink Pony, one of Atlanta’s many adult restaurants.
It starts with a crotch grab. No, back up … it starts with a few too many drinks at Abattoir followed by a feigned attempt to resist the urgings of my compadres. Okay, so back to the crotch grab. Seriously dude, would a guy in flip flops really be packing?
So after getting the best action I was going to see all night, the three of us pulled out our cash, collectively handed $30 bucks to the busty behind the counter and transgressed the line of all things reasonable.
I’m looking at my watch and wondering how the hell I managed to walk in here before 11. Save for that fact, I don’t really feel that bad about the visit. This perhaps on account of the fact that one member of the trio is of the farer sex, perhaps that I know something good will come out of this night, or perhaps because I’m just “that guy.” Boy, I hope not!
Walking through the doors at the Pony is exactly what you’d expect from the seedy underbelly. A waft of over-perfumed air smacks me in the face while neon lights, jiggling body parts, and The Offspring take care of the rest of my senses (yes … you could taste the naughty as well).
It’s early, so we barricade ourselves from the fish bowl main stage by locking down at one of the three bars. Our thin veil of safety is quickly demolished … tits out to there go flaunting bye. Then, as if a message from the Devious Master himself, I spot that drop dead gorgeous Asian chick slinking past me. [I will not go to VIP, I will not go to VIP, I will not go to VIP]. However, knowing that half my paycheck just walked by, I somehow conjure my inner most reserve. I’m here for a reason! I spin to the bartender and engage.
I know I looked at the menu … in fact … I’m sure of it. But I can’t remember for the life of me what was on that damn thing. I’d point you to the website (cough), but the only menu there is full of silicon. What kind of restaurant doesn’t have their menu online? #MenuFail
Back in the moment, I somehow selected an order of the lamest tits I’d see all night. Struggling at that one? Yes, the deep fried Buffalo’d chicken breasts (aka the chicken fingers) were on their way. Calling them chicken fingers at a place like this just doesn’t seem right. I guess now is as good a time as any to mention the cheese steak; however, last time I ordered one was several years back. It was on behalf of my girlfriend du jour (my stripper) and it came out cold! What the hell man … I paid good money for it … the least they could have done was made it hot! She ate it any way without a fuss.
Back to my surprisingly staunch mixed vodka drink and back to Teagan Pressley. The sign behind her says she’s the #2 porn star in the world. Great, now I feel like we’re at the Porn Star BCS. While her Buddha belly drapes one of the stage’s railings, AW and I begin to discuss the merits of whatever poll put this chick near the top.
I return to my man juice (aka a Cape Cod aka vodka cranberry) and decide to check in on my hombre. He’s straddled by a scantily clad shot girl who is way too good at what she does. I roll my tongue back into my mouth, turn to the barkeep and actually ask her: “Do you mind if I ask you one of the strangest questions you’ll ever be asked?” Most guys wouldn’t be able to get away with that, but hey … I’m special. [Still with me mom?]
If ever a woman was able to capture morbid curiosity, sheer intrigue, and sexual innuendo in a single facial expression … this was that woman. The follow up rolled off my tongue, “Mind me taking a picture of the food?” She chuckled, flirted some more and walked away.
I got absolutely no frame of reference for how long it took them to produce my over priced plate of chicken parts. Oh yeah I do … two 10-spots went into garters while I waited. Still, we’ll call the food service prompt.
Meanwhile, on the satellite stage in front of us, Peaches (who was as big as her name would imply), got very jealous of my rotating hips. When she saw my Travolta-esc moves on display for EW, she was obviously threatened. She promised to give her a real show! Thankfully, just as I was out of exit strategies, my girl behind the bar tossed me another drink and a plate of crisped chicken.
Never has a plate of food so bad tasted sooo good. Crispy, slathered in cheap Buffalo sauce, and steaming hot … I mowed down those things like it was my last meal. Honestly, you don’t want to be that guy eating in the strip club … so I did my best to get rid of the evidence. The only thought other than my food to enter my mind revolved around Peaches. How the hell did a woman that full of stretch marks make this cut? Refocus refocus refocus!
Even in my inebriated state, I couldn’t convince myself to finish the plate. After all, I had to make sure my stomach could still be sucked in … I mean, you do have to look good for these girls after all.
I finished as much as I could, relocated to a main stage table, and spent the next three hours in a dizzying spill of bad. The rest, as they say, is for me to know you never to find out (unless of course you know either BG or AW … and neither of them have ever been good at keeping a secret).