Catchy title, eh?
You have probably already seen the preview for what is sure to be the movie of the year, I have and I can assure you that no one is more excited than I am. BUT, just in case you missed it, see below.
That gave me chills.
Now, what was I talking about?
Oh yeah! My first encounter with male strippers.
When my sister and I moved to Fresno, California from our little Podunk Colorado town, we were starving for excitement. Lucky for us, the very same week that our parents pulled out of the city and left us on our own, one of the local nightclubs was playing host to the Men of L.A. (Fresno’s half-priced version of Chippendale’s). It was a 2 day, 2 show event. We arrived early, paid our $20 admission and claimed our seats right next to the stage.
It took more than an hour of waiting, and 2 bottles of water (I was only 19, my sister was 18 at the time) before the lights went down and the music started. The men came out one at a time, chests glistening in their briefs and knee-pads. It was already the hottest thing I’d ever seen. There was “Silk” the naughty police officer; “Rico” the Marine; Drawing a blank on the name of the guy playing the Count of Monte Cristo but he also happened to be Playgirl’s “Man of the year”; and some other oiled up guy that I can’t remember at all.
Our proximity to the stage afforded us excellent views and free lap dances. My sister had her reservations but I was all for it so, when stripper-I-can’t-remember came over and grabbed my hand, I had no problem rubbing the baby oil in on his chest.
Being new to all of this, I only tipped them a few dollars. Hey! I was broke.
After the show, we were given free passes to the next day’s events and we spent the rest of the night on the dance floor screaming our favorite parts of the night into each other’s ear. Overall, I’d rate the first show PG-13.
The second show was a stripper of a different color. We took “our” seats, right next to the stage again. I even splurged and bought a $3 raffle ticket. When they came out on stage then, it felt like saying “Hello” to old friends. I felt freer with my money and purchased a lap dance from the naughty cop, Silk. Who knew what kind of difference a few dollars could make? He was in my hair, and on ME leaving baby oil stains on my nice blue shirt. I was quite enjoying myself, or rather, him, when out of nowhere he bit me on the neck! Whoa! Are you supposed to be doing that?! Whatever, I wasn’t complaining.
The song came to an end too soon for my liking but I’d say that was $5 well spent.
As they started the announcements for the Raffle, I felt a winner’s spirit. I knew that I was about to get something, even if it was just a dinky water bottle. I did win. It wasn’t a water bottle though. It was a lap dance and a …um… DVD, starring and signed by Mr. Man of the Year himself. Yea, that’s right, I have an autographed porno.
When the Count pulled me to the middle of the floor, I was a little nervous. I didn’t realize that I’d be part of the show. All of the sudden I was in the air. He was picking me up, and throwing me around like it was nothing. His flowing white shirt was falling open exposing his chiseled, oiled torso; the hilt of his sword digging into my thigh. That’s not a euphemism for anything either, it was an actual sword.
I was breathless and excited, my cheeks flushed, every nerve in my body tingling. Then it was over. He led me back to my seat, kissed my hand and I sat down grinning like a fool and blushing beet red. *sigh*
The rest of the show was a little hazy. I was dazed.
We stayed again for the club scene. We were seated in the corner, catching our breath and sipping our ice water cocktail when the Count approached. He leaned close to me and asked me if we would like to leave with him and the rest of the strippers to attend the “after party” at their “hotel suite”. Of course! We’d love to go!
That’s about the time that reality came and punched us in the face.
Their “suite” consisted of non-adjoining, single rooms with 2 queen beds, in the shittiest motel off of Highway 99. The “party”? A bottle of vodka and gas station orange juice.
Without warning, the fantasy dissipated into stale motel air.
Rico, the sexy marine was just some douche with aviators and fake dog tags. The Count of Monte Cristo: a long-haired, horny man with a fake accent and a plastic sword.
Silk was still hot but he was nowhere to be seen. And all I remember about the-stripper-I-can’t-remember is him offering his cheap vodka to us minors.
Moral of the story: Leave the strippers where you found them.
You may think that my experience has ruined strippers for me but I assure you that I will be front row center when Channing Tasty-uh, Tatum makes his début on June 29th. *sigh*