Swingers

It’s not polite to stare. I know this. However, even my mother would agree I’ve found an exception to the rule. There’s a blonde in a black mini-skirt and pumps on top of the bar, grinding with an Asian beauty who’s showing more skin than Pam Anderson at the Playboy Mansion. Combined body fat percentage, estimated, three. We’re inside 32˚ at the Quarter, and like its sister club in Old City, it’s dark, crawling with dudes buying bottles of booze at a 1,000 percent markup and half-naked women they’re trying to impress. Down the bar from the Solid Gold Dancers, a quarterback-sized stud is practically being fellated by a woman whose halter top is fighting a losing battle with her breasts.

“This place is dead tonight,” Joey says.

Granted, it’s far from a capacity crowd here, but hey, it’s an hour after the bars have closed in Center City, and the alcohol is still flowing freely. Since we’ve been out, Joey and John have bumped into various friends from either Philly or South Jersey — coincidences that wouldn’t have happened years ago, when the idea of Atlantic City as a place to hang out away from the pits was laughable. Sure enough, John is soon slapping backs with two guys he hasn’t seen since his days playing football for St. Joseph’s High in Hammonton. While John catches up, Joey, who went to Paul VI, surveys the scene. He’s not impressed.

“This isn’t a place to get laid,” he shouts over the blaring house music. “This is where you bring your girl. It’s … stylish.”

Indeed, while the Wave was lacking in atmosphere but crawling with singles on the make, 32˚, and the Quarter itself, represents the direction this town is headed — from the exclusive Foundation Room at the House of Blues that looks like an Indian pleasure palace, to Club Mixx at the Borgata, where the likes of Carmen Electra and Diddy have played. Style, more than the size of your chip pile, is taking over. Maybe if there was more action here, like on a typical summer night, or if Joey found some old pals to bond with, like John did, he’d look less wistful. In a way, Joey is Atlantic City — torn between reminiscing about the days when he owned a piece of this town, and feeling the inexorable pull toward the future, where everything’s changing and he’s merely along for the ride.

Then again, it might just be those stiff drinks catching up with him. When John’s pals wander off, Joey declares it’s time to hit one last spot, perhaps as a nod to the way this town used to operate, when the only entertainment off the Boardwalk involved dollar bills and G-strings. We cab it to a dive that would never be described as stylish. As expected, the hulking bouncer shakes Joey’s hand, and John’s and mine, ushering us up a flight of stairs to a private bar where the owner hugs Joey like a son. We order a round from a woman with blue hair and a patchwork of body piercings. Joey draws deep from his Michelob Ultra, putting the new A.C. on hold for just a minute longer.

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