“We’re Bringing the Strip Club Home”

When we first asked Juelz Santana to spend $848 of Blender’s cash, the Harlem rapper was going to play suburban dad, shopping for furniture at a New Jersey IKEA. But then fate intervened in the form of a bullet: Cam’ron, the leader of Santana’s Diplomats crew, was shot in Washington, D.C., and like a good lieutenant, Santana rushed to his bedside.

“It made us all a little more on-point,” Santana says of the shooting. “You only live once, you dig? You gotta ride this shit till the wheels fall off.”

So tonight we’re in Atlanta with a new plan. It’s a life-affirming plan — a defiant reaction to a near-tragic reminder of his own mortality. At least we think it is.

“Nah,” says Santana. “I just love big-butt girls.”

Turns out the 22-year-old MC — in town to promote his new album, What the Game’s Been Missing! — has decided to throw a classic hip-hop afterparty. There will be booze. There will be weed. And, most important, there will be half-naked women. As Santana says, “Tonight we’re bringing the strip club home.”

In a city whose topless bars are the stuff of legend, spending the night in might seem like an odd choice. But the Diplomats pride themselves on being the DIY-est of rap crews. They’ve built a small empire peddling their mixtapes from Harlem storefronts and street corners; it’s only fitting that their bootyfest would be bootleg, too.

When we meet around 10 P.M., Santana is putting the finishing touches on a Sharpie-sized blunt. (Thanks to The Man, it’s the one part of tonight’s festivities Blender isn’t allowed to pay for.) As he lights up and takes a deep toke, he outlines the plan of attack. “First I’m gonna get drunk. Then I’m gonna get these ladies back to the hotel. And then we’ll see what’s poppin’.”

We hop into his BMW and head out in search of a liquor store. But after a few minutes of cruising through the ’hood, it becomes apparent that we’ve overlooked one crucial fact: In Georgia, liquor stores are closed on Sundays. Suddenly it’s shaping up to be one decidedly un-gangsta party. But in steps Santana to the rescue.

“I know people,” he says, nodding. “It’s not a problem.”

Sure enough, a couple of phone calls later we’re in an empty liquor store parking lot in East Atlanta, and Santana is hopping out of the car to meet “a guy.” He’s gone less than 10 minutes when there’s a muffled pop-pop-pop in the distance.

Gunshots?

Santana reappears toting an arm full of bottles, just as two police cars come flying down the street, sirens wailing. One of them hits the brakes and turns abruptly into the parking lot. As our security guard goes to explain the situation, Santana sidles up to Blender: “You know it’s always the writer who gets shot, right?”

We think he’s kidding, but either way, this seems like a good time to get going. Santana ducks back in the car, and after a quick detour to meet up with the rest of his crew — 12 or so convivial guys with names like Black and Real — it’s on to the hotel.

If the desk staff is at all uneasy at the sight of a dozen young black men marching through the lobby after midnight, they don’t show it. The same can’t be said, however, for the four middle-aged white guys waiting near the elevator. “We’ll, uh, take the next one,” one says. Upstairs we’re greeted by Juelz’s older brother and road manager, Twin, who spent the afternoon picking up party supplies (soft drinks, cookies, a box of condoms that will go unused). Before long there’s a knock on the door, and in walk four of Atlanta’s finest: Vaniti, Nicole, Andreah and Tiny. Despite what Santana’s publicist said earlier that day (“I wouldn’t even call them strippers — they’re straight-up ho’s”), all seem very nice and utterly professional.

“Damn,” Santana says, smiling approvingly. “Y’all got them bazooka butts!”

While he moves to the bar for a drink, the ladies retire to the bedroom and start changing into their work clothes. Blender asks if they’ve heard Santana’s new single, “There It Go (The Whistle Song),” reportedly a gentlemen’s-club fave. They shake their heads. “I mostly listen to oldies,” Andreah says, peeling off her shirt to reveal a bikini top about eight sizes too small. Hoping to jog their memories, we whistle the song’s hook. “Oh, that one!” says Tiny. “They play that in the club all the time. It’s a big crowd-pleaser.”

We ask what they think of their host. “He’s a flirt, I can tell,” Andreah says.

Tiny shrugs. “I like his bandana.”

“He’s cute,” says Vaniti. “He reminds me of a little boy.”

Back in the living room, the party is in full swing. Bottles of Bacardi, Absolut, Hennessy and Cristal are quickly drained as the ladies strut around the suite. Santana flashes a few $100 bills, followed by lots and lots of singles. “I love Southern girls!” he proclaims. “Nothing Hollywood about ’em.”

After a while, Santana leads the quartet into the bedroom for a more private show. But even six-inch stilettos and shoelace-thin thongs can’t distract the rapper from himself: As the women gyrate around him, he silently mouths along with his own mixtape, booming in the background.

Though his beats are some of the hardest in hip-hop, Santana’s boyish charm has earned him a rep as a bit of a playboy. “Ladies just love ’Elz,” Twin says proudly. “He sees what he wants and he takes it.”

Half an hour later, though, the only thing Santana appears to be taking is a nap. He’s sprawled across the mattress, eyes closed, mouth half-open. Apparently his assertion that he “could do this for days” is only true until about 2:30 A.M. The ladies rise and begin putting on their coats.

Startled, Santana sits up. “Y’all aren’t going home, are you?” he asks groggily. “You going to the club? Which one?”

As the girls head for the door, Santana thinks for a minute and, with a grin that says he knows better, jumps up to follow them. “Damn, y’all,” he says, shaking his head.

“I got a flight in the morning …”