Speaking of tedium, last night I went to see male strippers for my friend’s bachelorette party. A lot of people were pretty surprised that I went, given that she isn’t a super-close friend, and, as you may have guessed by now, nightclubs aren’t a huge part of my usual social round. Line-ups and coat checks and cover, oh my!
The last time I went to see strippers was for my sister-in-law’s stagette about three years ago, and big surprise – no new innovations have ever been made in the naked man dancing industry. You’ve still got your dancers out before the show selling “stripper dollars” that buy you a look at his big penis or five seconds of simulated oral sex. That annoying DJ/announcer/host uses the term “Ladies” far too often, as in “Ladies, you’re going to have to scream louder if you want Dimitri to take his pants off!” and keeps hyping the crowd throughout the night as if we were at a monster truck rally. The dancers come out clothed in some nutty costume (everything from leopard-skin cowboy gear to Elvis in a jumpsuit), get down to briefs by the end of the second song and flash a thong on the third. Where else but a stripper show do you see men wearing two layers of underwear? Then the grand finale is always lighting the fire pot thingy, rubbing oil on their muscles, and just when they get nekkid, wrapping a towel around their waist. Every single time, the fire, the oil, and the peek-a-boo towel dance. Plus they wear these boxer boots the entire time, so I’m supposed to scream at a stranger wearing a towel and socks?
But scream I did, mostly because they were giving free drinks as prizes for the loudest table. We got a big round of shots and some girly Vodka drinks. When the final fire pot was doused, they let in all the other guys and we danced to the mixture of current pop hits and classic rock in a big circle of girls.
It was a fun Saturday night, take or leave the strippers.