“SUNDAY” magazine, NEWS OF THE WORLD, July 21^st 1996.

There’s more on offer in Atlanta this summer than just fun and games at the Olympics…Tony DeMeur samples some of the non-contact sports at the city’s sexy nightspots.

So what, you may ask, have I done to warrant a punishment like this? To be forced to watch this brazen display of pulsating naked flesh, all performed solely for me and only inches away from my cripplingly embarrassed face.

I force my gaze away in search of something more familiar and comforting, but instead I’m greeted by the vision of 14 perfectly-formed bodies all dancing slowly and deliberately in a vast circle. Almost all of them are completely naked, apart from a single garter which resembles a bulging wallet packed with $10 bills (about £7.50) that have been placed there by appreciative males.

I’m in downtown Atlanta, U.S. of A., sampling some of the alternative nightlife that will be on offer to the hordes of overseas visitors converging for the Olympic Games. And, as this city is famous for its table-dancing striptease joints, I find myself inside one of the more celebrated – The Cheetah Boutique.

The Deejay’s gruff ‘Wolfman’ – like bark announces fresh blood to the stripping circle and Russian Olga and the raven-haired, long-limbed Priscilla take the main stage between the two massive Greek God statues. The girls grind away nonchalantly while LL Cool J emits his smoky rap over the sexy-smooth funk. Even the buzz saw grunge that follows fails to disturb their matter-of-fact moves and I wonder if even The Birdie Song would make a bean’s worth of difference to their indifferent gyrations.

Cheekily, the next song is called Lay Your Hands On Me, but this practice is strictly out of bounds in this club. You can ogle as much as you like but don’t ever touch – this isn’t Las Vegas, you know. There , authentic lap dancing is a contact sport where naked lovelies do their bumps and grinds in the laps of the paying customers. But here in Atlanta it’s illegal.

NO HANKY-PANKY

Should you let loose an over-excited lunge, you’d feel the very physical presence of Guy, the muscular minder and girls’ silent protector, who likes to keep an eye on the customers’ every move. There is no after-show hanky-panky – the girls are sent straight home when they’ve done their stint.

Bill Hagood, the owner, opened his club 17 years ago and he’s pretty much retained the original look and atmosphere to this day. All animal print, chrome and black – a bit like Stringfellows but distinctly more over the top.

Away from the main room with its throbbing disco beat, there are quieter places - The Boardroom for “power undressers”, The Jailhouse, where handcuffs and a little light-hearted discipline are in order and the Shower Room, where 30 or so men watch as two girls cover each other in chocolate sauce and cream. There’s audience participation as they’re asked to chuck sponges at the girls, in the hope that they’ll stick to their ample curves.

In the VIP Room, Alison and Nicola are table-dancing , removing their micro-clothing while thrusting to the beat of the Cheetah groove. I sit with a smile frozen on my face, mouthing the odd compliment like: “That’s a strange place to have a mole” or “So where do you keep your sandwiches then?”

When Alicia has dressed again she sits down beside me and reveals that her breasts are not her only large assets. By day, the 21-year-old is a student paediatric doctor. Her earnings from table-dancing which can be $1000 a night – support her through college. “I’ve been doing this for three years,” she says. “The first couple of times were embarrassing but you get used to it. It’s very good money.” Although she gets very mixed reactions from her family, her boyfriend doesn’t mind but then “he’s a stripper, too. His job is much worse – he does hen parties and the women are much more outrageous than any of the men here.”

Makes me wonder what the two of them talk about when they get home: “What kind of day have you had, dear?” “Oh, you know, nothin’ special. Stripped off, oiled me pecs, danced about a bit.” “Me, too. Fancy getting dressed and going to bed?”

Alicia is one of the few girls in the club who hasn’t invested in silicone. “These breasts are all my own,” she says proudly. “Lots of the older girls have had implants, but I’d hate to.”

Over the next month, visitors from all corners of the globe are expected to pile into the Cheetah, flashing their wads of cash. And was Alicia looking forward to the Olympics? You bet your sweet bippy. “I’m hoping there’ll be a big rise in my bank balance,” she smiles enthusiastically.

So what of the customer? Jim Bowling is one of the Cheetah’s most loyal clients. He’s visited the club two or three times a week for the past eight years. He claims: “These girls are bright and attractive and they make very stimulating conversation.”

Jim usually goes to the main room and watches the table-dancing. But Dwight, another regular, prefers the more hands-on approach. In The Jailhouse he’s trussed up in a dog collar and led around on all fours by the knickerless Nicola. I try to get him to talk  but he just barks. Persuasive Nicola beckons me to join in and before I know it, I’m handcuffed and spread-eagled on the Punishment Wall.

The trouble with punishment is that it hurts! Several lashes later and I’m permitted my freedom, so I’m off into the heat of the Atlanta night to see what other ‘games’ are on offer. Tom, the photographer, suggests The Gold Club which sounded suitably Olympic but has nothing to do with medals. In fact, it’s decidedly down-market. The neon hubbub inside is halted temporarily by the arrival onto the cramped stage of a sorry quintet of fat boys, and in no time, a bevy of butt-naked beauties begin their humiliation of the over-burgered dupes.

At a nearby table, a John Candy lookalike hoists his t-shirt to reveal a stomach that resembles an over-inflated beach ball, raises his thumbs to his mates and leers: “Look guys! Embarrassed? Me? Nah!” But his mates’ reaction is somewhat muted – they’re all sitting in a circle tied to their chairs while the Bosoms From Hell go in for the kill.

GOTHIC SIN BIN

But silicone suffocation isn’t for me, so I move on to a sex spot that caters for more diverse tastes. The Chamber is an S & M club housed in a black barn, with several metal cages hanging from the vaulted ceiling. Behind the bars, human string beans with powder-white bodies and soot-black hair twitch to the rhythm. Mon Cherie, the proprietress, is less than athletic in black leather and studs, as she shows us round her Gothic sin bin.

Everywhere people are cracking whips of fire, and dangling above me is a woman suspended upside down from her ankles by metal chains, while a motorised grinding device crashes into her chastity belt, shooting sparks up to the ceiling. In the bondage room partners lash each other in turn, while a group in the peepshow area takes in some Victorian sadism.

Tonight is a quiet night for the S & M crowd, but they promise that things will really hot up soon when the 15-piece bondage band, The Impotent Sea Snakes, is at full volume. I’m tiring of my tour, though, and realise I’m not up to the Olympian task of coping with any more sex shows. I simply crave a quiet bar where the women keep their clothes on and I can sup a half-decent pint.

I find it. The Prince of Wales. It’s one of Atlanta’s two English pubs - the other is The Rose and Crown – and as I sink my lips into the foamy head of a Fuller’s London Pride, I cast my mind back over the whole bizarre night and I laugh myself silly….

Photographs by Tom Fahay.