With all due respect, and I honestly mean this in the nicest way possible, p*ssy is the most powerful drug known to man. And with their documentary web series, Atlanta’s famed Magic City takes a peak into the behind-the-scenes world of what is one of America’s most controversial, yet lucrative professions. While it isn’t exactly NSFW, chances are watching this from the cubicle is only safe if a) your job doesn’t give a damn what you do on the computer b) you can actually get to YouTube and c) it’s a slow day so cutting out about 25 minutes of your life to see the daily routine of strippers is actually beneficial.
In all seriousness, too, the two clips below are – like most exotic dancers/entertainers – well put together. They drive home the notion any girl can get on stage and pop it for a real ni…well, a dude with some singles in his hand or back pocket. Instead, it’s the real entertainers who actually work the pole, put on a show and traditionally leave with the most money. These are also the ladies Drake makes songs about and many a men, as well, have briefly and permanently fell smitten for (i.e. Tyga). Then there’s the backstories on how a good majority Magic City’s darlings decided this industry was the proper career move.
And here’s the thing, too. (Most) dancers are in damn good shape, better than the majority of this country. So, ladies, appreciate the pole. If nothing else, take a few tricks away from GiGi and the gang and employ them on your knucklehead partner. There’s not a man breathing who wouldn’t appreciate an impromptu lap dance to 2 Chainz’s “I Luv Dem Strippers.”
Moving along, I’ve got a personal story about Magic City from when I traveled to Atlanta in April 2011 for my buddy Chris’ birthday. That Saturday, we’re all faded beyond belief and somehow end up at the strip club. Three shots in and a couple of mixed drinks notwithstanding, I knew my budget. Spend $50 bucks, and after that’s gone, fall back and simply enjoy the scenery. So here I am, throwing singles out strategically. The dancers are loving me, whispering all kinds of stuff I wish not to repeat on here when suddenly the smell of blunt smoke overtakes the club. The good smoke, too. I’m talking the smoke so good hitting it one time makes you think you could legitimately eat an entire Thanksgiving spread in one sitting, good.
That was nothing out of the ordinary, but this time it was explicitly heavy. It was like everyone in the club sparked at the same time as if it was Atlanta’s version of “tea and crumpets” in London. Then, from the heavens, $100’s, $50’s and $20’s begin raining from the sky literally nonstop for 30 seconds. By this time, I’m panicking because there’s no way these strippers will continuing whispering sweet XXX-nothings in my ear if I continue to throw out singles.
To make a long story short, they forgot about me, ran to the money and my night was over. Before taking that humble, defeated walk back to my friends across the club, I decided to turn around and see who it was who ruined my night. Was it Josh Smith? Was it a local dope boy? Did Big Meech suddenly get out of prison? No. It was Young Jeezy, smoking a blunt the size of a #3 pencil. He looked at me. I looked at him. He smirked, took a pull from the blunt and nodded his head as to say, “My fault. It just happened.”
I picked my $15 in singles up off the stage. Met back up with the people I came with. And went to Wendys.