When I took George, my other half, for his birthday in December to Swinging Richards here in Lauderdale which purports to be the most popular gay male strip club in the country (I mean how many gay male strip clubs are there?), I didn’t realize that he would love the place as much as a size queen likes a nine incher. Jesus! Now he wants to go every friggen Saturday night when I’d rather be cruising our local leather bar, the Ramrod, which he detests as dreggy. Huh? Like young humps being gawked at by libido- leering, mostly older men while they prance around totally naked isn’t.
I guess I should be happy that something’s finally fired up his interest. After all, this is a 60+ guy who usually spent Saturday night watching 50 year old sit-coms on TV Land.
But EVERY Saturday?
And like a lot of the old fools who frequent the place (which admittedly has its share of cute under 35 clients too), he thinks every humpy young guy on stage has been smitten by his daddy charms. Especially the twins Darryl and Dale who, with their simulated humping, carry on like they were more than brothers, and who, yes, have identical dicks (xx-large).
Hey, I know most of what makes Swinging Richards tick is fantasy. But these guys, who between stints on the stage rove around fawning over men who besides being old enough to be their granddads look like they were run over by Amtrak, are worse prostitutes in my view than guys who sell their bodies for sex.
Because when you’re selling your body and time to have sex with a guy you otherwise wouldn’t piss on, you and he know up front about the business deal. In the case of Swinging Richards, these guys are playing nice ON THE CHANCE that one of these train wrecks will go back with them to a VIP room for a “private dance” at a hundred and fifty bucks for 15 minutes, which is where the real money is, not in the dollar tips they’re showered with when they’re on stage struttin’ their stuff. But this is like sex on consignment. Sometimes their patronizing charm leads to pay dirt – often times it doesn’t.
As for all those dangling dongs, I’m not going to take away from what nature gave them, but George doesn’t believe me when I tell him most of these guys probably got a shot of Trimix into their dicks so they can cavort the catwalk with erections which have absolutely nothing at all to do with the men drooling in the shadows. (Their mother could be reading the phone book to them and they’d be hard.) Except maybe our hunks could also be turned on by the majesty of their own dicks. I know the feeling. When Gil, my sometime methhead fuck buddy shot my cock up, I admired it in amazement like a 13 year experiencing his first hard-on. That is, when it wasn’t up his ass.
That’s not to say I don’t have my favorites either. Like Sam, who comes on wearing his cap on backwards, hip hop style, and his boots unlaced, with a bad ass, bad boy smirk on his rugged bearded face He’s got a slim, trim, muscular body as tight as a drum, steel abs forged by the Roman God Vulcan, a bubble butt he loves to show off (why not?), and a thick 8 inch cut cock he swings in front of his very, very grateful fans like a baseball pro at bat practice.
But I just wish they’d have a couple of, well, hairy guys – everybody’s either smooth by nature or smooth by design, down to their bare pubes. As a result, this hirsute guy who likes hirsute guys is beginning to get bored. George, who would like to adopt or have sex with every guy up on the stage, and thinks they all want him madly, badly, blames my testosterone therapy for not kicking in.
At this point, since he can’t drive on his own at night (he has macular degeneration, under control but still there), I’m trying to cut a deal to drop him off at 9 and pick him up at 1 so while he’ jerking off in his mind over his Darryl and Dale or, hell, maybe even taking them back to one of the VIP rooms – God fucken bless Androgel and Visa – I can do my own cavorting at the Ramrod and get ignored by the same hairy hotties who stepped on my steel toed boots the week before.