The last time I visited a strip club was two lifetimes ago when I was in college in LA and a very str8 family friend who had recently lost his wife to cancer and his divorced buddy persuaded me to join them on a night out with the pole dancers. I soon realized the pretty ladies were a distraction from their personal woes. Unbeknownst to them, I was already playing the wild life of a gay boy in Hollyweird, home of the queers, but like I’ve said before, the best courses I took in college were my acting classes and I put on I enjoyed those bare tits as much as they did.
Fast forward to now. Swingin’ Richards, a gay strip club, had recently moved from Miami to Pompano Beach, a town neighboring Lauderdale, and me and a buddy one Saturday night decided to see what all the hoopla was about.
Situated in the middle of an industrial complex on the outskirts of town like a jewel in the middle of dog shit, the outside of the towering place resembled a palace, or better, a temple to young male masculine perfection. The lot was almost full so it was obvious the move from Miami was certainly a success.
Most people assume a gay strip club caters to the old, lecherous faggot type, but the crowd inside blew that assumption away. Sure there was your share of senior citizens, some with their still pretty at thirty or forty something boyfriends, kept or unkept, but there were also a good number of young twinks and pretty guys good enough to go on the stage themselves, and hetero or pseudo hetero couples and even stunning, statuesque girls – all legs and all real – who belonged on the cover of Cosmo.
My buddy grabbed us a few overpriced Buds and we caught a table right square in the middle of the catwalk. The show, continuous with new groups of four or five guys rotating through for our viewing pleasure every ten or fifteen minutes, was going strong.
Now, even though I love pursuing my second gay career as a Daddy, I’m not necessarily into young guys, but there’s no disputing the naked men I saw that night swingin’ their dongs on the catwalk were specimens of near perfection. It was as if their bodies had been sculpted in clay and, refreshingly, were, for the most part, not steroid junkies, just naturally beautiful young men courtesy of God and LA Fitness. While a few of them had cocks big enough for even this jaded faggot who had seen it all to be in awe of, most were just above average, and only one or two had raging hard-ons (Viagraed, pumped or au naturale?), to the disappointment of my buddy who had visited the club when it was still in Miami and swore every guy there was as stiff as an iron rod.
They moved like strutting Gene Kellys and flew up and down the poles like Cirque De Soleil acrobats. But what I got my real kicks out of was watching their faces, those confident grins exuding young male haughtiness, and when members of their adoring public came up to the stage to slip a dollar bill in their arm band or shower them in floating bills, I realize it was they who were getting off on their fans as much, or even more, than their fans were getting off on them.
They were the personification of unbridled exhibitionism.
Most of the night I fed my friend dollar bills to get up and reward a few of our favorite boys; it wasn’t that I was shy, just lazy. But as we rose to leave, I spied my pretty man of the night just behind us, clothes back on, who with his faint goatee reminded me of my 34 year old accountant who loved getting high with his Daddy and could only suck my cock when he was.
I stuck a dollar in his arm band, gave him a peck on the cheek, and thought again for the twentieth time that night how powerful physical beauty can be.
And how some guys just throw it all away.