I think if this writing blog doesn’t turn into a career-breaking writing gig, I might publish a guide to male strip clubs. Sort of like Zagat’s, or Rick Steves. I know I would buy it.
As another birthday creeps up on me like a bad rash (not that I know about such things), my friend Carly asked me if I wanted another stripper for my birthday. [If you don’t recall the first story, see here.] I am fortunate to have a good friend who is also a male entertainer enthusiast.
At least once a year, Carly and I go see a traveling male revue at the local bowling alley bar. As strippers go, this show is probably scraping the bottom of the barrel. It is clear they have upgraded their routines to appeal to the Magic Mike fans. Personally, I’m not a fan of the ridiculous acrobatic moves. I find myself thinking one of the large women who volunteer to go onstage to get tossed around like a giant tackling dummy will end up with a herniated disc or paralyzed from getting dropped on her head. I bring business cards with me just in case. I also do not enjoy getting flashed by the women volunteers in short skirts. They are contorted into supposedly “erotic” poses, but really I feel like I’m watching the opening minutes of bad amateur porn, and I can do that at home in yoga pants with cheaper drinks.
In case you were wondering, bowling alley strippers are not all that attractive. My guess is that these guys were rejected in auditions for more reputable troupes. For instance, there was the cop with stubbly ass cheeks and red razor burn on his chest. Or the show’s star who only wore a towel and stuck my hand under it to touch his junk while posing for Carly’s photo. It was all entertaining until I saw the pic later and noticed that said junk was an odd purplish hue. Again, my inner lawyer questioned if I could sue for making me touch his discolored man parts without my consent. I felt violated, which I guess is the expected outcome of seeing male strippers in a bowling alley. If you are taking notes at home, I would rate the bowling alley strippers as ½ thong. Do not go unless you have had all your shots, are wearing surgical gloves, have impaired vision and/or have lost a bet.
In comparison, my birthday stripper was much better. He smelled nice, had freshly waxed skin, and was quite attractive. He lost points, however, for making me exercise and wearing a ripped thong. I give him 1 ½ thongs.
For me, there is only one place to go for male strippers, and that is Montreal. Now, I understand there are impressive male strippers in Florida, but I have no interest in finding out. Because Florida. I don’t like heat, giant bugs, or the idea of somehow ending up an innocent victim in some “news of the weird” Florida headline.
As I’ve written before, a few years back I went on a girls’ weekend to Montreal. [Excellent story here.] Carly and I were eager to check out the male strip club, but our friend Meghan didn’t really want to go. She insisted the men would all be gay, so what was so exciting about seeing men you knew were batting for the other team. Umm . . . penises? Lots of them? Because the thing about Montreal strip clubs is that they can be completely naked as long as they kept their shoes on. That is how laws should be written.
Within minutes of arriving at the club and being escorted close to stage left, we were mesmerized by the women around us. There was a table of cougars celebrating one of their daughters’ 18th birthdays. There was a booth of women who easily all weighed over 300 pounds. There was a table of obvious regulars, who kept buying lap dances from the same poor young kid. And here we were, a table of American divorcees, trying to be cool about the fact we were surrounded by naked men.
Due to Meghan’s obvious discomfort at the evening’s entertainment, Carly and I decided that we were going to get Meghan a lap dance from the biggest dick we could find. With the exchange rate, it was a really good deal.
We considered the options. The monstrous star of the show, who dripped glow-in-the-dark paint all over himself from a mock shower. The cute young one that looked like her co-worker. The seedy long-haired Fabio wannabe. Perhaps the BIG black fireman. So many choices.
And then we saw our man. Spiderman. He leaped onstage, hopping around in a full bodysuit zipped over his head. He had the Spidey moves down, peering up at us quizzically. He pulled a woman up on stage and began tying her up in his web. The sight of a grown man wearing Garanimals was more creepy than seductive, but the women around us went nuts for it. I mean, Spidey wasn’t showing any skin at all. He just made weird Spidey motions up and down the woman’s body. He shot webs at her. We were roaring with laughter. The women around us were virtually tearing off their panties and throwing them up on stage. For the big reveal, Spidey unzipped his hood so we could get a good look at him. Spidey had a blonde surfer look about him. Oh yes, we must have him.
Martin changed out of his Spidey suit and came out in what looked like Speedo trunks. He sauntered over to our table. Meghan had her back to him, so Carly & I just pointed at her. Martin tapped her on the shoulder and when she turned around, she was eye level with his crotch. I’d never seen her eyes get so big. She immediately burst out laughing.
Martin was doing his thing, writhing around in front of her, which the neighboring cougars seemed to enjoy. Meghan, on the other hand, just kept laughing. Martin would look down at me with a confused look on his pretty French face, and finally asked me if there was something wrong with her.
“No, she’s just a virgin. Never seen a penis up close,” I answered.
Martin took this as his cue to start poking his penis in and out of his Speedo like it was a whack-a-mole. This was too much for Meghan. Finally she thanked him and told him he was very talented, but should share his talents with the room. I’m pretty sure it was the first time Martin had ever been rejected, because his Spidey joy fell off his face and he disappeared into the back never to be seen again.
Montreal gets five bedazzled tearaway thongs.
I really need to go back…