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Friday, 13 August
Riding Around In Bars With Boys
Tonight the wife and I attended a "bachelorette" party for S., a friend of ours; he is marrying his longtime boyfriend this weekend, so we gathered at the gloriously shabby Rendezvous bar to celebrate his last days of ostensible freedom. (S. undoubtedly counts himself dead lucky, as his fiance, J., is like something that accidentally stepped out of the pages of Startlingly Gorgeous Men magazine.) So we sat about and coolly sipped martinis for a bit, trading theater gossip and making occasional toasts. Usually scathing toasts impugning S.'s moral character.
Then the strippers showed up. Two anonymously lovely lumps wandered in, carrying a boombox, and visibly fretted over the bar's existing sound system, which was just then playing an Eartha Kitt song; S. wondered if they would strip to dear Eartha. They declined politely, and stood uncertainly for a minute before beginning, allowing me enough time to notice that their teeth were exactly the same color as their white cotton shirts. Then they hit the boombox and began their routine, as S. folded himself into a banquette to enjoy the show; the wife was seated nearby as well.
The strippers wasted no time, and stripped off their shirts in fairly short order. They were wonderful fellows, even if their expressions seemed to telegraph unstrippy thoughts, like perhaps, Maybe I'll have some soup later! or I have my doubts about certain Malthusian projections. One wore a thong, and the other some tighty-whities, which gave me fearful thoughts about unintended skidmarks for a minute, but then he peeled that off to reveal: another thong. I guess I should have trusted that he was a pro who would be vigilant about things like skidmarks, but then again, I'm needlessly neurotic. I observed clinically as tighty-whitey guy moved over to my wife and began jabbing his crotch at her face while she laughed hysterically and frantically jammed dollar bills into his waistband. On occasion, she would inadvertangly dislodge other bills when doing so, and would apologize to the man as she scrabbled at the floor--and then his underwear--to replace the lost cash. I also saw our good friend M.--a delightful actress with whom I've worked with on, count 'em, ten shows--be assaulted by the nearly naked boys, holding her arms up as if being attacked by hornets while the lads writhed around her. "NO! NO!" she screamed, which of course practically invited the strippers to do all but drape their cocks over her head.
The gay men in attendance, on the other hand, adopted a much more utilitarian stance, and literally manhandled the strippers to within an inch of dermal abrasion. R. actually patted his lap to encourage one of the boys to visit, and then, when accommodated, seized the young fellow's asscheeks like a Visigoth attacking a joint of beef, kneading them enthusiastically as if assessing their doneness. A., sensing that S. was being neglected, ran over to S. and began his own denim assault on S.'s face; R. continued to explore the murmury legalities of running his fingers down various G-string boundaries. At one point, it looked a bit like Caligula being filmed on a downscale budget financed by a very desperate Disney.
It was a lot of fun. And a lot of laughs. And I also realized that those beautiful boys probably made more than I did today.
So, sorry about the cancer. But we needed boys.
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Do we ever. (Need the boys, that is.)
7pm, K. Break a leg, cuz we'll be watching. Look for a NASA cap.
Great story. I especially liked the skid mark reference!
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