How Unexpected Trans Camaraderie Transformed Toilet Stall Tears Into Strip Club Cheers

 

Lisa Laman's iconic cameo in the film Hustlers 

Have you ever sobbed in a strip club bathroom? Take it from me, it’s a bizarre experience.

For starters, you’re trapped within four very intimate walls, which doesn’t help alleviate those feelings of being trapped by your emotions. As you’re trying to keep tears stuck in your pupils, energetic, you might notice rebellious graffiti adorning the stall walls. Such fist-clenching energy feels like it’s worlds away, even unobtainable, as you’re crying. Meanwhile, wafting into the bathroom are the sounds of Dolly Parton tunes and faint “woo!”’s from patrons over the sudden appearances of bare breasts. How can one be sad in a place with tiddies and Queen Dolly? Alas, I was fraught with profoundly rattling dysphoria.

I couldn’t have imagined this situation when I first strolled into the doors of Clermont Lounge in Atlanta, Georgia. Nor could I have comprehended, as I gently wept on that toilet seat, that immense trans joy was literally waiting around the corner. But before those emotional highs and lows, let’s take a cue from a song I heard all the time in P.E. class and “take it back now y’all.” Let’s go back to Lisa Laman’s earliest days in the Lone Star State.

Lisa Begins: Origins

Allen, Texas. A little suburb located about 25 minutes outside of Dallas. There were Caucasians and Starbucks locations everywhere, but no strip clubs. Within the halls of my non-denominational Christian church and schools, these locations were talked about in hushed whispers, like some far away circle of Hell we couldn’t even imagine. Occasionally, someone on a field trip might share a dubious story of some recent male High School graduate now working as a dancer at once of these laces. Another Sunday, a youth leader would reference strip clubs as the apex of debauchery.

This was a land of abstinence-only assemblies where speakers would harrowingly talk about how anyone who has sex will die. Applying any nuance to sexuality, let alone humanity to sex workers, was a laughable notion. Thus, my upbringing ensured I imagined strip clubs as crawling with dirt, cocaine and “lost souls.”

As I got older, thankfully, my worldview expanded beyond what schools and youth groups taught me. This included cultivating a more nuanced and immensely supportive perception of both sex and sex work. Still, in my first 29 years on this planet, I’d never stepped for into a strip club. When I was planning my itinerary for a trip to Atlanta, Georgia, though, a queer gal pal of mine passionately suggested I check out the Atlanta landmark Clermont Lounge. One of the oldest strip clubs in the city, it’s entirely owned by women and has glowing reviews online.

Taking weekly estrogen injections or traveling on my own all once sounded impossible Now they were part of my everyday reality. Now it was time to tackle something else that once sounded far-fetched. I wouldn’t just be venturing into a new city. I’d finally come face-to-face with a strip club.

Into the (Bare) Belly of the Beast

Clermont Lounge shares a building with the Hotel Clermont (the two are apparently unconnected in any way beyond operating in the same physical space). To enter, you need to walk down a set of wooden stairs and then enter through a doorway in the back. It’s a fun little entryway accentuating how some special hideaway from general society awaits. I myself entered this domicile at 4:30 PM on a Saturday and immediately found it…empty.

The Clermont Liunge’s interior was dimly lit (likely to draw more attention to lights connected to the performers), with only a glistening disco ball and strings of Christmas lights on the ceiling bringing light into the place. Also catching my eye in this place was a very kind middle-aged blonde woman sitting on her phone at the bar. She immediately waved me down, said howdy, and introduced herself as one of Clermont’s performers. She looked glorious and we began chatting about all things Atlanta as well as her years of experience dancing at Clermont Lounge.

Once she began preparing for her performance, I was left to my own devices. I began nursing a Shirley Temple (I don’t drink), sat down at one of the tables, and plucked out a Charles Band autobiography I was reading. As I focused on absorbing stories about Band’s affair with Demi Moore without much light, I found myself chuckling. I’d spent years building up every single strip club as a drug-smeared abode oozing toxic personalities. Now, in its first 90 minutes of operation, it was basically just a library…albeit with bare-breasted beer banners on the walls. Maybe libraries should start incorporating those.

Inevitably, people began trickling in. More specifically, men were trickling in. The handful of non-Lisa Clermont Lounge patrons were grizzled, middle-aged men who were all loud and rowdy even before a drop of alcohol entered their system. Suddenly, I got flashbacks to my exploits being alone at my local lesbian bar. All those times gay men I didn’t know would “playfully” grip my knee or touch my hair without my consent. I had come here just to see pretty ladies and live vicariously through the physically adept exploits of sex workers. Not get grabbed.

Then, I remembered they were cis-het men…and I wasn’t with anyone. Oh God. Were they going to hit on me? Would they see me reading alone at this table and use that as an invitation for flirting? I’m a lesbian, leave me alone, ya brutes!

Then, the most devastating thought hit me as more men piled in. If there’s an entirely male clientele at Clermont Lounge…what does that make me?

Will I be perceived as a man by everyone else? Does being here automatically mean my woman card is revoked? Oh God, are there traces of my assigned at birth gender on my face? Is my facial hair showing? Why didn’t I do more this morning to look more “lady-like”?

These were the cruel, catastrophizing thoughts racing through my head as men increasingly outnumbered me in this space. It once sounded so fun to go to a strip club for the first time. Now, it was a nightmare. Immediately, I dashed into the women’s bathroom, leaped into a stall, and locked the door behind me. As I sat there trying to do some calming breathing exercises, one of the lady dancers came into the stall next to me. I could see on her feet a pair of pink heels adorned with heart patterns.

They were so pretty…and they just hammered home my dysphoria. I could never wear those. I almost broke my neck the one time I tried to wear really elaborate heels out in public. Is my not wearing those another sign I’m not a woman? I was spiraling, there was no other word for it. Gender insecurity and dysphoria were crushing my brain. No amount of breathing exercises could truly quell my pain. As I dabbed the tears from my eyes, I vowed to take care of myself. It was time to head for the exit. Lisa’s inaugural strip club adventure ended here.

I Thank the Bank for the Money, Thank God for Trans Camaraderie

With my purse situated on my shoulder, Shirley Temple stewing in my belly, and tears dabbed away, my feet firmly began to move towards the Clermont Lounge exit. Then, I saw another dancer had come out to the main area, a person we’ll call Appa (because of the way they lift people up). I’d previously run into Appa real briefly while reading, since Appa was changing a lightbulb or some other remedial task. They were very friendly in this quick exchange and we even bonded over how we were both wearing thigh-high socks that day.

When I came out, Appa immediately gave me a grin and a wave before signaling I should come stand next to them. A redhead with eyes radiating energetic creativity, Appa was all ready to go for performing in her leatherbound bras, panties, and heels. As I stood next to them, Appa and I began talking. During this exchange, they nonchalantly revealed they were non-binary and used they/them pronouns.

“Yeah, I dress like this,” they remarked, gesturing to their ultra-femme-leaning “leather mommy” appearance, “for capitalism!”

We both chuckled, each knowing how capitalism’s ridiculous demands inspire trans people to “mask” or modulate just to make rent. Those shared experiences were such a richly human contrast to my worries earlier about “failing” as a woman. Now here I was talking to a person who nonchalantly reinforced my validity as a trans soul. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone. Our conversation lasted a while longer, with Appa complimenting my appearance and inquiring how I was enjoying Atlanta so far.

Absorbing unbridled enthusiasm and queer chaos cascaded within Appa’s aura. Their personality kept me so captivated, my brain failed to return to focusing on catastrophizing dysphoria. As they bounced away to perform at the bar, Appa was still chatting with me, making amusing Avatar: The Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra references. After watching Appa talk the talk, I was transfixed (no pun intended) to see how they’d “walk the walk” in their strip performance.

First up was Appa impressively dancing and sliding on the bar stage on their knees (thank God for those soft, thigh-high socks!) to a country song. Though I’m an expert in the genre’s 2000s exploits (Cross Canadian Ragweed hive, rise up), I’m not cultured enough to know what this ditty was. All I know is Appa crushed their dancing and rhythmic movements. The precise timing and theatricality for when they finally took their top off was also stupendous, I just adored the grandiose physical flourishes they injected into this action.

That was all already enough to make for a tremendous show, especially since Appa’s choreography and tiddies were so glorious. Then came the second of their two early performances, which Appa clarified beforehand was set to a song “just for me” since there were barely any patrons in the bar.

That’s when Weird Al Yankovic’s “Your Horoscope for Today” began blaring over the speakers.

I can’t even begin to say how much Weird Al has positively affected my life. If there was any musician who could solidify turning around my Clermont Lounge experience, it was the man behind “Skipper Dan” and “The Night Santa Went Crazy.” Suddenly, I could feel God in that Clemont Lounge.

Witnessing a powerful trans redhead lip-syncing to Weird Al was an experience too perfect for me even to dream about. There was no way something so aligned to my interests could ever materialize in reality. Yet Appa turned tht concept into engrossing reality. I was in awe of their showmanship, including perfectly coordinating ass smacks, boob flexes, or knee slides to the tune’s silliest sonic flourishes.

After the song finished, Appa left the stage to make way for a brief break in the performances. Immediately, Appa made a beeline to me (I’d been at the bar cheering and tossing dollar bills across both tunes) and I quickly blabbered about how Weird Al was one of my all-time faves. We found further common ground on how often we’d heard the man’s ingenious parodies (like “The Saga Begins”) before the original tunes he was lampooning.

With my tummy rumbling, I knew my Clermont Lounge experience was at an end. But I made sure to personally thank Appa for their kindness, trans camaraderie, and excellent music choices. They’d never fully know it, but just their kindness and being open about their gender identity restored my spirit. Appa insisted on a hug before I left and I was happy to oblige. With that, I exited Clermont Lounge and began strolling over to a nearby pizza joint. I’d lived through my first strip club encounter.

Trans People…Is There Anything They Can’t Do?

Once I walked back out into the sunlight and waited for Uber, I had to stand there and blink for a moment (and desperately try to charge my dying phone). Was all of that real? Everything within those Clermont Lounge walls (from the sobbing to Appa to even me reading at a table) seemed so surreal.

Returning to my Vrbo a few hours later, I sat in my bed and stewed over this emotional rollercoaster of a day. My mind also drifted to how my Clermont Lounge expedition occurred one day after I presented at a panel at the NLGJA Queer Journalism Conference (the whole reason I went to Atlanta!).

This place was packed with amazing, talented queer souls with excitingly varied journalistic interests. That night, a meet-up was organized for trans attendees of the event. So many of us trans folks (of delightfully varied gender identities) were put into a conference room and began endlessly chatting. The room was abuzz with the voices of individuals often silenced in society.

During this event, one attendee gave a mini-speech where she recalled how she’d come out as trans back in 2003. “When I first attended a trans journalist meet-up back then,” she remembered, “there were only five of us. And now…” She didn’t even need to finish the sentence. Her gesture to the room’s shoulder-to-shoulder crowd said it all.

We are many. We are not going anywhere. And we are here for each other.

You never know where that truth might get reinforced. I certainly didn’t think, at the height of my dysphoric spiral, Clermont Lounge would be such a place. Yet, Appa’s kindness provided a life raft when I was drowning in a sea of loneliness. Moments later, their dazzling dance work on stage radiated the kind of trans confidence I try exuding every day with my colorful, glitter-dotted makeup. They took that stage and made it their own, complete with stripping to a wacky Weird Al song they could lip-sync to without breaking a sweat.

It was such a memorable, glorious depiction of a trans individual being boisterous, alive, and contorting a space to suit their needs. Witnessing Appa performing on their terms (specifically in stripping and dancing to music they like) and unabashedly talk about their passions was a balm for the soul. I love seeing us be ourselves, throwing societal norms to the wind. Who knew such unforgettable trans camaraderie was waiting for me moments after I was sobbing on a strip club toilet?

I smiled in my Vrbo bed, thinking about that reality before closing my eyes. As slumber began chasing after me, that anxiety-ridden part of my brain still did its terrible nighttime dance reminding me how I didn’t know what lay in store for me the next day. Maybe I’d get harassed. Maybe my friends would suddenly say they hated me. Perhaps I’d just have a static, banal day. With this experience of going from bathroom stall sobs to euphoria fresh in my brain, though, I staved off the catastrophizing thoughts. I knew, from the bottom of my soul (at least for a moment), I could handle whatever came next. That’s the power of trans joy and connections…and Weird Al music.