Continued from yesterday.

Turned out that the high-density crowd at the club that night was unusual for a regular Saturday night. There was an event for the night that the girls who’d brought me hadn’t expected: male strippers.

Thinking back on this whole evening, now, I see how it was really turning out to be like a script from an unimaginative sitcom. I mean, getting me to go along to a gay/lesbian night club is slightly funny, but to then throw in a male stripper review, well, that was really pushing into the ridiculous. Come on, who writes this kind of plot?

After midnight, the stripper show started. I basically knew what to expect of a male strip show just from cultural osmosis. The guys came out, in turn, dressed as cops, construction workers, etc. During their individual dance, they took off their clothes down to their g-strings, and humped the air.

It wasn’t anything unusual for what it was, I guess, but two things did surprise me. First, the dancers were not in the perfectly buff shape that I expected. I mean, they were far more muscular than I was, but they didn’t have the ripped definition I thought they were supposed to have. A couple actually looked like they hadn’t worked out in a while; some fat had layered over their muscles. A couple showed no six-pack abs at all. That’s kind of pathetic for strip dancers, no?

Second, some of the dancers had a thousand-mile stare. They didn’t even look down at the audience. They just did their moves as by practice, with no audience interaction at all.

The gay men had moved up to the stage, and the lesbian women had fallen back to the tables. I was standing between the back of the men and the front of the women, supposedly with at least one of my female companions.

They had promised that they wouldn’t leave me alone in the club. But, as would be written in a bad sitcom plot, of course, I had been momentarily abandoned, on my own. And that’s when a guy approached me.

To be continued. . .

Bullgrit

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