Freakish Proximity to the Perverse.
[The following is sexual in nature and contains some minor raunch]
People all have their own nuttiness for how they engage in the act of sex and the stuff that precedes and follows it, whether it be reciting dialogue from Midnight Madness to rubbing their knuckles along their partner’s sternum to wiping away the dirty moments specifically with napkins from Red Lobster. Everyone has quirks and some folks need to go a little above and beyond to get off. I understand it. Whatever works for you.
Just keep it to yourself.
The other night I was having a few drinks with friends at the gentleman’s club I sometimes hang out at [Oasis] and was sitting in the quiet back corner relaxing when a man in khakis and a conservative oxford sat down directly next to me, an exotic dancer in tow. I’m minding my own business, sipping a Myers & Coke and finishing my cigar and waiting for a friend to get back to the table. The guy is maybe two feet from me and he begins to get a lap dance (which begins eerily similar to the one in the new Grand Theft game).
It’s part of the deal, right? It’s not like I’m at Drake’s Pub or the House of the Sisters of the Poor. It’s a strip club. People get naked for money and guys have this blank, slack-jawed stare [and no one has a better one than Micah Robinson, gazing sensually and scientifically into the stuff inches from his face] as they see it unfold. That IS the deal.
Here’s what’s not the deal.
This man, who I overheard is from Ireland and named Patrick [oh, he’s the one…] couldn’t just enjoy his $10 dance. He had to not only narrate it but take matters into his own hands.
Picture this dialogue monotone and delivered approximately five seconds apart:
Then he’d grab his dick and rub it through his khakis. Then, he’d repeat the dialogue above. Every once in a while he’d go off the reservation with an “I love when you rub your pussy against my cock” and then grab his business and massage it some more.
I’m two feet from the guy having to listen to this bullshit. There are private rooms at clubs like this where this kind of silly bullshit is supposed to happen. The floor is for less inclusive, less annoying stuff. People can go to a strip club [regardless of what your Christian upbringing tells you] and have a good clean time.
But I was given an unsolicited look into this Dubliner’s private life. His pillow talk, per se. Fuck that. Even looking away I could still hear the fucker and the image of him grabbing his cock in semi-public as a dancer did her thing [the expression on her face as she faced away from him spoke volumes] haunted me. He proceeded to get another five dances before trying to skip out of paying, at which point the bouncers handed him his own little personal potato famine before ushering him out the door.
That’s minor perversion. Truly minor. I’ve seen a lot worse, but something about how willing he was to sit right next to me and conduct himself that way [we were the only two customers in the vicinity and he could have gone elsewhere] just didn’t sit right with me. It made me wonder what would happen if I went to some really seedy clubs.
So I found out…
The Body Shop on Sunset in Los Angeles, for example.
There I got to see a very pregnant dancer, a woman rub her vagina on a man’s face for three minutes for a tiny $1 reward, an Armenian midget go to the private room with three women, a stripper come in dressed in her civvies only to change and do a dance before getting dressed up again to meet another ‘customer’ outside, and other assorted silliness.
I think I might be on the losing end of an argument that says that men in strip clubs are supposed to still behave like somewhat civilized human beings. I think that amidst a group of people who talk like they’re in a porn, assholes who rain money on a woman’s back like so many squigglies, and guys who aren’t too ashamed to stroke themselves two feet from another fully dressed guy, I’m the one who doesn’t belong.
Which sucks.
Before
I go, here’s the latest thing I’m adding to the blog. Each day I’ll
have a song, a piece of artwork, a photo, a Mary Worth, or something to
further justify your click and to give the trolls a little more ammo.
Today, an alternate I did for one of my ‘If CHUD Ran the Movies’ posters:
