I just got back from a two-day trip to Atlanta, Georgia, involving a court case in front of "Judge Crater." On the night between days one and two of the hearing, I decided to have supper with my cousin, "Dick," who is a somewhat marginal lawyer in that city. We met at Trader Vic's in the downtown Hilton, which has been one of my favorite restaurants for many years. We had a pleasant dinner, and Dick listened with much sympathy to my current troubles with my girlfriend, the colonically challenged Miss Hermione, which are known to my PR cronies.
When we were finished, Dick said, "you will feel better if we went to my club for a while." Now, Dumpster, having led a somewhat sheltered life, had visions of cognac and cigars in leather armchairs by a fireplace at the Capitol City Club or the Commerce Club, which are the kinds of "clubs" Dumpster frequents.
Dumpster was in for a rude surprise. We drove and drove out past I-285 to someplace in North Atlanta, and pulled into a crowded parking lot in front of a large, brightly-lit building. I didn't notice the name on the place, but I thought, "funny, this doesn't look like any 'club' I've ever seen."
No shit, Sherlock. There was a line to get in, and they were all men. Many were well-dressed, though, so Dumpster was still uncertain about this. However, the presence of a bouncer plus the sounds of loud music from inside finally woke me up to the fact that this was some kind of a "nightclub." (I know, I know--Dumpster isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, etc., etc.)
Having never been in a nightclub, I figured what the heck. (Also we were in Dick's car so I was sorta stuck anyway.) Dick was clearly a regular there, because we bypassed the line and the bouncers, and went to what was evidently his usual table.
It soon dawned on your Dumpster why there were only men in line. All the waitresses were naked! In fact, all the women in the fucking place were naked! There were naked women dancing on a stage, naked women dancing in cages high above the floor, naked women behind the bar, naked women dancing on people's tables, and even naked women doing, ah, intimate things to each other, all for the pleasure of the male clientele. Most of them were even reasonably attractive (I mean the WOMEN, TBW!).
Dick even managed to produce the brandy and cigars, which did a little, just a little, to ease the shock to Dumpster's system. The music was too loud, but the place was reasonably clean, and many of the patrons were well-dressed, professional looking types.
Dumpster's momentary equilibrium was shattered, however, by the arrival in my lap of a naked child who looked to be all of about 20, and weighed about 100 pounds, about half of which consisted of the silicone in her tits. It is accurate to state that this individual proceeded with a substantial invasion of Dumpster's personal space.
As she writhed, she asked me my name. Clearly the polite thing to do here was to make conversation. "Dumpster," I said. "Ah, what's yours?"
"Cinnamon," she responded breathily, gyrating her labia perilously close to Dumpster's, er, lap.
"Oh?" responded this consummate conversationalist. "Cinnamon who?"
"Cinnamon Buns." I shoulda known. Probably a stage name?
"Cinnamon," queried the Dumpster, as her erect nipples lightly brushed themselves against my chin, "does your Mother know what you are doing?" Jeez, if Hermione knew what I was doing!
"Fuck, yeah!" came the response. "She works in here three nights a week herself!" A lovely family, I'm sure.
(I should note at this point that Dick and a lot of the regulars had gathered to observe and were laughing their asses off at the sight of this out-of-town yokel losing what last vestige of innocence he possessed. Also, apparently Cinnamon was engaging in rather more "contact" than club policy permitted, but all in good, clean fun, I suppose.)
"Cinnamon," gasped Dumpster, whose own breathing was getting a little heavy. "Do you enjoy this, or is it something you have to do?"
"Man, I love it! It makes me feel good to see guys looking at me, and the money's great!" Ah, the joys of free enterprise!
"Well, you are certainly an attractive young lady," responded Dumpster, who was rapidly running out of conversation.
"Ooh, Dumpster. You're so cute!" murmered the demure Miss Buns, pressing her ... self firmly against my... (Dick was still laughing his head off). "I'm really not supposed to, but can I kiss you?"
No sooner said than acted upon, her red, pouty lips (I mean the ones on her FACE, Bunga!) headed for mine. What happened next is kind of a blur. Somehow the idea of communicable diseases flashed into my mind, and at the last second I turned and presented her with my cheek (the one on MY face, AB2K!). As I did, who should I behold out of the corner of my eye but--you guessed it--JUDGE CRATER!!
Now, there are three immutable religious truths:
1. Jews do not recognize Jesus as the Son of God.
2. Protestants do not recognize the Pope as the Vicar of Christ.
3. Baptists do not recognize each other in the liquor store.
I am a devout Methodist, and I don't know what Judge Crater's persuasion is, but something of this Baptist dogma came into play between us in that moment. Thankfully, Cinnamon's meter ran out (I assume Cousin Dick tipped her, because I never gave her anything. I hope she didn't give ME anything, either, Sam!). Thus, Dumpster didn't have to live up to his name and dump her to the floor. I immediately set a vector for the exit which would keep my back to the good Judge the entire way, dragging a protesting Dick (I mean my COUSIN Dick, TSV!) with me.
I cussed Dick out all the way back to the hotel. But at the conclusion of the hearing the next day, Judge Crater, with an imperceptible wink, granted my motion.
I should also note that, when I got home last night, there was a somewhat encouraging email from Hermione, whose sexiness eclipses that of Miss Buns by about the same degree that Anna Nicole Smith's eclipses Roseanne Barr's. I imagine I'll be talking to Hermione by this weekend, but I believe I should keep the details of Dumpster's brief walk on the wild side between me, Dick, Judge Crater, and my friends on PR. Di and Daph, what is YOUR advice?
Last edited by The Dumpster
on Mar 03 2006 12:29 pm, edited 1 time in total.