Last night I went to a strip club for gay guys. Of course this fact, in and of itself, would be unremarkable until you consider that I went alone, in an unfamiliar city, and that I’m a girl who likes (mostly) girls. WTF you ask? That’s more like it.
Admittedly, I started out the evening armed with googlemaps directions to a lesbian bar within walking distance, but true to clueless form, I got lost. Turns out it didn’t matter anyway because after asking the poster child for butch lesbians (tattooed, clad in a black leather jacket, jeans and worn boots), I was informed that the place is closed on Mondays; her eyes said “oh, you poor horny baby dyke”. Defeated, I stopped for wings and a beer nearby and was about halfway through the hike back, (it was farther than I thought), when I spotted a sign promising “live nude guys”. Maybe it was the beer I had just had, or the guy smoking outside who told me girls were allowed in after 9pm (which it was), or just voyeur- ahem, curiosity; I pulled back the tinted doors and headed up dark stairs to the club.
Butt cheeks. The dancer on stage had his back to the room of no more than 4 guys and myself, boxer-briefs pulled down over said cheeks, and was shimmying against the shiny golden pole, bathed in soft red lighting and surrounded by mirrors. I rolled up my shirt sleeves, ordered a drink from a waiter with fangs (I kid you not), and took a ‘ringside’ seat as he finished his dance. I was a tad disappointed that their definition of ‘nude’ seemed not to include full-frontal from what I had seen so far but needn’t have been, for that notion was very effectively quashed by the next act, who also happened to be ‘guy smoking outside’. He gave me a knowing smile and began his performance, which I’ll get back to in a second.
The place itself was not at all as seedy as I had expected. It was clean, not too dimly lit as to be sketchy; the seats were comfortable, with candles at each table… a bit like an upscale lounge if you ignored the ‘entertainment’. The music was a blend of techno and strip-appropriate songs (I’m not sure myself what that even means) and each act spanned 3 songs – one each for t-shirt, jeans and underwear. The other dancers, when they were not on stage, strutted about bare-chested and chatted with the clientele. A dark guy sidled up to me and started to make small talk. He was cute, built and assured me he was straight but only danced for gay guys because they were more generous than women. He also told me he “loved” black girls and offered me “a good time later” if I was interested; I politely declined (say no to prostitution!) and turned my gaze back to ‘guy smoking outside’, who by this time was down to his tiny briefs.
As though to reward me for my renewed attention, he wriggled over to my side of the stage, put a leg up on the table in front of me and face-to-crotch, leaned over to whisper something unintelligible in my ear. I probably didn’t hear it because I was distracted as he took my hand and started running it over his chest and thighs, dropping it only after it grazed his (still covered) package, and smiling mischievously the whole time. Then he took off the briefs and spent the last few minutes of the song gyrating and using his (hard) penis as a prop of sorts. The rest of the guys I stayed to watch were (as I remember them): Mr. Awkward, Mr. Chewing Gum, Mr. Flaccid, Mr. Gymnast and Mr. Uncircumcised.
It was all extremely titillating, perhaps because it appealed to the “who’s your daddy” side of me that likes to be in control, or perhaps simply because I had just watched 5 sexy guys dance naked. Either way, I marched home determinedly in the cold, masturbated hard and fell asleep in an exhausted heap. Whoever said Mondays are dull?