As if there wasn’t already enough speculation about my latent homosexuality, I’d like to recount my Sunday-night adventure watching the all-male revue at the Hot Body Club.
Hold your horses a second, Pancho. Partaking of this spectacle wasn’t my idea. Julie Lauderbaugh and Jacquelyn Lewis suggested I go. I said, “No.” Then she said I could write a column about it.
And I folded like a beach chair.
The funny thing is, I haven’t even seen a female strip show. I set foot in a strip club once with some friends, but we were ousted after one of them mistakenly gave the bouncer her fake ID (purporting she was over 21, not over 18 – which she was). Oddly, she was the oldest one in the group, but her spritely build betrayed her.
Fundamentally, strip clubs and I don’t jive. I haven’t gotten past the puritan embarrassment that I am witnessing nakedness while fully clothed. To see naked you must be naked. It’s a law of the friggin’ universe. Plus there’s the demeaning factor – not the women, but the men. Seeing guys pay women for a glimpse of the punanny makes me feel shamed and dirty.
I know this now, because when our cadre arrived (we had been joined by Adelle Lennox; four seems like enough for a cadre), there were women performing before the male show. I tried to look away, but there are mirrors everywhere in strip clubs, so that didn’t work. The only thing I felt OK looking at was when the girl removed her panties hanging upside-down on the pole. That takes skill! The guys didn’t do that!
Being with the girls made my embarrassment that much worse. The blessed blacklights hid my reddened face, but they revealed the lime juice I spilled on my T-shirt during the strict drinking regimen I had imposed. Damned if I was going to watch male strippers while sober!
I should expand briefly on my attire: I made a conscious effort to look straight. First off, the purple clothes stayed at home. I learned that lesson. Then it was jeans and a T-shirt topped off by a black fleece and denim jacket – all appropriately disheveled so as not to convey a sense of over-preparation. If I had a “Bikini Inspector” T-shirt, it would have been on.
But back to the men without clothes.
As I understand it, Eugene doesn’t oft see an all-male show. So the performers really brought it together in a nice, um, package. Three of the five men gave the introductory hype song-and-dance backed by music indiscernible over thundering bass that threatened to implode my brain.
Each performer worked the stage for about 30 minutes, first stripping, then selling time in “hot seats” for a close encounter. This is how the guys pay the bills. Getting in the hot seat was a very hands-on experience. Women groped, slapped, squeezed, grinded – pretty much whatever they wanted to. I figure this is compensation for the lack of full nudity. But that doesn’t seem fair. I mean, that’s all we men have to offer. Sure, these guys were buff, unnaturally hairless and seemingly size-sufficient – but I don’t really trust those elephantine jock straps.
Before getting to the goods, I was unimpressed by the cliché outfits. There was the fireman, the cowboy, the Top Gun guyS puh-leez! I understand the need for various props to insinuate the length of their manhoods, but I think they could be a little more creative. Still, those Velcro-ripping pants were kinda neat.
The show must have been good enough, because some women were on stage for almost every man. I gathered that a number of such women were in the industry. Aside from the ones I saw dancing before the show, another group across the stage from us were comparing their breasts, casually lifting up shirts and probing for what I assume to be shape and firmness. So they acted out of peer courtesy. You know how you tip really well after having worked in a restaurant? It’s kinda like that.
During this pageant, there was an unexpected turn of events. I had expected to be grossed out and embarrassed. But instead, I found myself watching the women spectators, who were performing in their own right. But because they were not the strippers, I could look at them guilt-free. Contrary to what you might think, plenty of attractive girls go to watch male strippers. I know this is a horrible double standard about strippers, but that’s the way it played out.
I was able to watch unobstructed, because the show focused only on heterosexuality. There were maybe five other guys there for reasons I won’t speculate on. Where I had feared being singled out, I was pleasantly ignored by the performers and took pleasure in exchanging hysterical, astonished glances with my cohorts.
All in all, it was a riot. My cheeks still hurt, and I regret ever being embarrassed about going – not that I’m itching to visit to another strip club of any kind.
I was content as we walked out the door and already writing this wonderful column in my head. But there I found the perfect epilogue to my story: One of the female strippers from when we arrived was outside smoking with a friend, and as I passed, she said I was “cute.”
Oh yeah. I’ve still got it.
Contact the Pulse columnist at [email protected]. His views do not necessarily represent those of the Emerald.