Where the music stinks, and they water the drinks, at the nudie bar.
Where the girlies dance in their underpants, at the nudie bar.
Where you see their butt, and their trap stays shut, at the nudie bar.
Where a buck's enough to see their stuff, at the nudie bar.
Where the breasts may be fake but man do they shake, at the nudie bar.
Where you swear like a sailor, and wish you could nail her, at the nudie bar.
Where the cops are at the door, and there's a Kennedy on the floor, at the nudie bar.
Yes the miserable ageing dyke went to a straight guys tittie bar, actually I went to two and almost nothing turned my interest at either. It seems almost a cliche that a gay girl's libido wont be lite up by a male targeted display of flesh, and it was painfully male. But there was one wonderful exception, a girl whom I could genuinely thank for just existing. A wonderfully, buttery, curvy baby that mommy wanted to finger paint with until we ran out of supplies.
What does buttery mean I hear some ask. Imagine if you will, movie theatre popcorn with it's oily, salty, sweet topping. That wonder little experience of sucking the slimy little treat from your fingers, it's the only real reason you'd order popcorn. And not the 'new' crap they try to peddle, I'm talking; coconut oil popped corn with unsubstituted, unmodified, straight from the cow's utter, salted, sweetened butter. That's what buttery is good reader. The delicious little treat that melts in your mouth, and in you hands.
But my appreciation of this lucky little specimen of homosapien, whom I might add didn't have to try very hard to turn me into homoerectus, was repeatedly interrupted. And yes that evolution joke works on so many levels and I'm very proud or if. It was interrupted by one of my male companions, lets call him Kenny. While that wonderful, jiggly reason to smile, ineffectually drifted across the stage with no rhythm or talent but who could be forgiven for it or even forgiven for crimes against humanity with a little pirouette, Kenny. Kenny! Wouldn't stop talking. 'Oh my god they killed Kenny.' GOOD! Die, Kenny Die!
Why, oh why Kenny would you turn poor Torri's attention from a girl who she'd give her best wordless oral presentation to. The gay girl, ME, was on a very pleasant slow simmer, a state I might add I've been deprived of for more then I'd like to admit and Kenny talks through the whole thing. Don't invite a homosexual women to a man's wiggle room and TALK during the only act she sits up straight to. I could beat YOU!
Anyway, so for the most part the hooter shack was a neutral in my wet and wonderful things to do. I'm not really attracted to the type of woman who'd take off their strip of sting and hanky while flossing their cleavage with a pole. Actually Stephen Fry has a great quote about 'beautiful' people; 'Attractive people who are very fit and very beautiful and instantly therefore look quite staggeringly ugly as a result. It is one of the great jokes that nature plays on the beautiful.'
Mr Fry is absolutely correct in this regard. While I had a very strong desire to be as comfortable with my own nudity as these women were, I didn't feel inadequate or ugly in comparison to the women mosquito-ing money from the men's wallets. I had zero attraction to almost all of them and even a slight revulsion to some. Kenny. Kenny! Tried to insist that I clap for every 'dancer' who came on and insisted that these girls were displaying talent.
They weren't. Not one had a good or interesting routine, even the girl with the creamy buttery goodness brought nothing but her genes to the room. Don't think I'm trying to denigrate them or take away their ability to exploit someone else's needs for their own gains, I'm not. But butter could have gotten me to buy her drinks, food, or just pay for the pleasure of sitting next to her with her kissable skin and cuddleable frame. Mommy's IQ would have dropped in proportion to her proximity and that's perfectly alright.
While someone with a lot less self confidence then I might suggest that these women shouldn't be rewarded for an accident of nature, I completely disagree. There is a need for the attractive, the pretty. A woman, or man, perfectly proportioned with flawless skin, triggers an ancient instinct within us, the instinct to pamper and preen ourselves. And this reaction isn't necessarily restricted to one physic, it could be completely mental. In my case it was entirely mental. For about an hour I was queen bitch with the wicked and delicious thoughts floating through my head. If I had been 10 years younger and 10ishalotmore, pounds lighter or drunk I would have been on stage giving a little show with butters, for whatever price she saw fit. Being sober, flubbery, and greying I chose not to humiliate myself by being the creepy old dyke playing with the young girly.
Sexual attraction in like a drug, it fuels ones mind and opens up needs and wants that might otherwise lie dormant. For me, I got a little thrill thinking that I could play with a yummy young thing and even the though that I would have to pay to act out that fantasy, doesn't degrade it's mental effects. I'd be queen bitch with butters at my beckon call. Dance, DANCE for mommy.
I had no illusions that anything more would ever come of the moment, nor would I want their to be. That's the trade off these people must make. Although some of them are beautiful and deserving of compensation for their gifts of showing themselves off, they become like dolls. Pretty porcine things you take off your shelf and fawn over, play house with but ultimately they're just toys and you'll need to put them away.
Saying that they're toys might sound horrible but I'm not saying this in an insulting way. I've loved so many of my toys, I've loved them more then a lot of people in my life. Being a toy is only horrible if you have nothing else in your life. If butters had a partner, a kid, and was working on her dissertation of law, would being a toy for several hours every so often be horrible. It might make you jealous if you saw her paycheck or it might even make you jealous that she has the ability to be a toy and you can't. But if you say she shouldn't or can't prance around for the payments of other, are you then going to say that the intellectuality gifted have to be held back so as not to belittle the average.
The distinction between the genetic gift of beauty and any other genetic gift is an artificial one and single one of them out for criticism while praising another is a falsity. Butters showing off her physic is really no different then David Suzuki showing off his brain.
Suzuki you whore, your intelligence is hanging out. Children might be watching.