Farewell, Old Friend

I never thought I'd get all sentimental over a club, but Backstreet Atlanta was more of an experience. I say that in a non-copywriter tone and I say it with my deepest sincerity.

Got My Cherry Popped
Backstreet Atlanta was the first gay club/bar I ever went to upon moving here in 1996. I have many a fond memory there, not to mention many a fucked up memory. A lot of the people I know I've met on its dance-floor, on its stage, in its bathroom stalls and even the parking lot.

Bitch, Did You See That?
Today, Shawnna and I drove down Juniper on our way Downtown and as we do every time we go past it, we looked over to pay our respects. This time though, it was different. So different that we pulled around the block to take a closer look from the Armory parking lot.

Cameras Ready? Prepare to Flash
The Backstreet main lot was completely fenced in and demolition had begun. First we joked about getting every tranny in the city we know to get in high whore drag for a photo shoot next to the bulldozer, but the laughing soon subsided to quiet stories of Backstreet and its glory days. These newer kids would never have survived until day break, that's for damn sure. And, their handy fake IDs wouldn't have meant a damn either.

It's Alive in Clubland
We decided whatever fancy high-rise built to occupy the hallowed space would be haunted. There would be blasts of fag house blaring in the air conditioning ducts; ghosts of overdosed circuit boys, party kids and trannies roaming its verandas; everytime anyone shut the door to their bathroom they'd hear sniffles and the popping open of tiny plastic baggies. These frou frou heteros and their 2.5 kids would experience the gay life they had been sheltered from, just in a more creepy and ghoulish manner. You wanted a view? How about this one of two muscle boys getting it on ya' Aeropostale wearing yuppie? I hope it drives the lot of them insane. Me? I'd feel right at home.

How Did We Get Here?
For years, Backstreet wasn't a destination, oh heavens no. You just kind of ended up there. And, there you'd have the best time. The liquor was ever pouring, the trade was around every corner and and the real world was light years away. Was that your boss in drag? Probably. Was that your third grade teacher doing bumps in the bathroom? I wouldn't be surprised. But, it's ok. Backstreet was like Vegas in a building -- whatever happens here, stays here OR until you call your best friend on the phone cause they weren't there yet.

B.F.F.
Ah, Backstreet, rest in peace, my friend. Yes, I revise, Backstreet wasn't just a club or an experience; it was a friend -- a friend you told your deepest, darkest secret to and they'd listen without judgement or prejudice. They'd just hold up their glass and offer a toast.