Like Nobody is Watching

After two days of a cold—after two days of blogging about William Holden cracking his head and bleeding to death and Martin Luther King’s untimely demise, I fear I’ve taken my readers to a dark place.  But sometimes, that’s just how it is.  I’m finding that I don’t always know where each blog is going to go.  The other day I wrote about zombies, and the piece wound being a metaphor about a failed relationship.  I recently wrote a blog about an altercation at a drug store, and then I got an e-mail from a friend saying that the woman I wrote about might have been her mother.  Of course that bothers me, but at the time of writing, that was not my concern.  It wasn’t about what it said about her, it was what it said about me.  I can’t let myself be consumed with that kind of self-consciousness.  I can’t fear that no one will read and then dread the consequences when people do read.   I can’t fear that my readers will be bored, offended or disappointed.  I have to write about what I find fascinating and hopefully that translates well. There is nothing I love more than researching and writing, and there’s nothing that means more than being read, and that my words could be a small part of your day.

That being said, I think its high-time that I switch gears and tackle male strippers.  Last night, two co-workers and I went to a bar to see “Canadian Playboyz”. (I think the ‘z’ makes it sexier, don’t you?)

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Kathleen had often reminisced about going out in the 1980’s, and what a hoot such events were.  Of course, I hadn’t gone out in a few years (see Foot-lose) and when the event was mentioned, Jessica quickly helped make the idea a reality.  Tickets are bought, and the plans are made…and of course, I get a cold.  But I work diligently to  achieve better health in anticipation of the night.  (Come hell or high water bitches, I’m going OUT!)  The girls come round to mine and jello-shots and rose wine is imbibed, and my husband drives us to the bar.  The, ahem, ‘performers’ have not started yet, and we giddily anticipate what is to come.  Jessica boozily confesses a fear of seeing these naked strangers…like, the whole thing.  Kathleen has told us stories—one of which when a stripper took her glasses and put them on his ‘member’.  I love this story because I always imagine her squinting blindly as he backs away ever so sexily with her eye sight on his cock. (You’re going to bring those back right?)

article-2346071-00057EBE00000C1D-960_634x536The MC comes out, and riles up the crowd.  The three of us are hanging back, but there is a decent crowd of hyenas, er I mean women, panting in the wake of this beefcake, who keeps alluding to the fact that soon these guys are going to get “naked and sexy” (as opposed to what? “Naked and flatulent?” “Naked and Crying?”)

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And lord knows what these beefcakes are up to, because the clock strikes ten on a show that was meant to start at nine, but it doesn’t really matter because we are drunk and dancing.  The MC returns, once again throwing around the “naked and sexy” guarantee.  He starts selling 50/50 tickets to the audience—the prizes included being dry-humped by a naked stranger—which seems like a good deal to at least 50% of the audience.  He goes on with a general: “here’s what you get for ten dollars, here’s what you get for twenty”, and we’re not really listening because we want to save our money for more drinks.  But the mention of the grand prize did capture my attention, ‘for the most horny and nasty woman in the room’.  Ugh, who wants to win that prize?  (And further more—is there a worst word in the erotic lexicon than ‘horny’?)

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The strippers go out into the crowd, selling tickets and grinding up on these women, who are squealing like nubile teenaged girls. Oh my god, this is like my worst nightmare, these strange men are licking and kissing, and pushing up against you in their tight jeans…in front of everybody…for money, no less.  When they passed us, we all just dropped our eyes, as if the floor was the most interesting thing we had ever seen.  The MC begins a new game: he chooses a couple of women from the front, asks them what their favourite sexual position is, and another stripper comes out, and performs it on her as she…fakes an orgasm.  The woman who faked the best orgasm won a lap dance.  And these gals did not hold back, screaming like they were on as sexy roller coaster.  This whole scene is really testing my feminist values.

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I came as a lark with some friends, but I really was expecting some cheesy, hard bodied dancing to Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like a Wolf”…not denim clad doggie style with some shrieking participant.  And really, in the end, their whole shtick was 15% actual dancing.  But let me tell you, they did do some choreographed Backstreet Boys type moves, but I couldn’t stop imagining them rehearsing it in their mother’s basement.  I looked at their website in preparation to write about this, and as it turns out, the bar couldn’t swing the extra $50 for “Full Monty”, so we were stuck with the “G-string Show”, which mostly involved a lot of ab rubbing and butt clenching.  This all suited me fine; I couldn’t handle seeing those things swung around like helicopter propellers anyway.

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The show ends and we hit the dance floor, which is my favourite part of the night.

5566361209_8d6fb92b75_zI am now certifiably in a new chapter in my life: married, in my thirties and unconcerned with being cool, which is good because I’m not cool, so I don’t have to worry about it anymore.  As I’m dancing, my eyes fall on various figures in the room, and there’s so much evident self-consciousness in the room.  Everyone is aware that there is the possibility of judgement (this is a bar packed with women after all), that there is an edge to everyone’s actions.  Some girls are dancing like there is a camera on them; others dance like they shouldn’t have had that last drink, and others are dancing, eyes darting all around, looking to see what else is happening, who else is here, cell phone in hand, rouged faces illuminated by the screen’s light.  As for me, I’m dancing as if I won’t go out again for another three years. I danced as if nobody was watching; drunkenly deciding that this is how I should write: fearlessly, recklessly, and with little regard of what others think about the way I move.

17h4rImages Courtesy of Google

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