Watching The Ball(s) Drop New Year’s Eve at Swinging Richards

Watching The Ball(s) Drop New Year’s Eve at Swinging Richards

For the past two New Year’s Eves, G, my other half, and I have spent the night at Swinging Richards, Fort Lauderdale’s premiere male strip club, actually located in nearby Pompano Beach. Hey, it beats what we did most New Years after the party period of our relationship had faded, and that was watching the ball drop in Times Square – on TV.

The first time we hit Swinging Richards was two years ago as a surprise “present” on G’s birthday. I was unsure what his reaction would be but he took to the place like a duck to water, mesmerized by all that young flesh and young dongs. In fact, I used Swinging Richards that I renamed ResErection as the setting for one of the final pivotal scenes in my last novel, “The Czar of Wilton Drive,” the story of Jon, a kid from New York, who inherits two of Lauderdale’s most successful bars from his late uncle. In this scene Marcos, his older mentor, who has now become his lover, takes him for a visit:

“They entered the dimly lit foyer where Marcos paid the cover, then passed through heavy dark curtains, like the moment when Dorothy went from black and white to Technicolor, into a Wonderland of Men.
Beautiful, young naked men.

In the center of this cavernous arena was a long, raised stage where under flickering bright beacons, guys with steel abs forged by God, half hard sausages any Italian deli would be proud to display in its window, and butts sculpted by the Devil, cavorted with haughty smirks on their faces. They shuffled around effortlessly like strutting Gene Kellys and up and down poles like Cirque De Soleil acrobats. Jon could tell they were proud to share their unabashed male physical perfection with their fans – all men, young, pretty, old, plain – who crowded around, either standing by the stage, or sitting at small tables with big drinks, or at the bars that bordered the perimeter, each of them immersed in their own personal, private fantasies with their favorite guy. But, judging by the smutty smiles on the dancers’ faces, it was if the pretty men on stage were getting off on all their adoring fans as much as their fans were getting off on them.

Marcos and Jon grabbed one of the open tables facing the catwalk and sat down. Marcos ordered two Bud Lites from a passing waiter, another hottie overdressed in a blue jockstrap.

“They’re all so fucken perfect…” said Jon, unable to take his eyes off the stage. He watched as guys came up to stick dollar bills in their arm bands. One of the dancers, with a body as tight as a drum, donned only in a black cap, black boots and a faint goatee, knelt down for an admirer, his huge, semi-erect cock bouncing in the guy’s face as the guy showered him with bills like Nero would have thrown gold coins at a young boy he was sweet on at some Roman orgy. “

Well, the men this New Year’s Eve were a bumper crop of male beauty, sought while they strutted their stuff on stage by guys of all shapes and sizes, guys with their buddies or lovers, guys with their girlfriends or wives, along with old men with canes and walkers who were particularly vulnerable targets for the dancers’ off stage meanderings as they attempted to convince them to part with some more of their money for a “private dance” in one of the “VI P rooms.”

While there was no denying that every guy up on that stage was glorious, I saved my singles for the bearded, rough-hewn guy with the hairy chest who was probably no more than twenty-five but already going bald. As I got up close and personal to place my gratuity in his armband, all he was wearing except for his sneakers, I noticed the fur on his shoulders.

Well, who pops up from nowhere as G and I were ready to leave just pass twelve for a midnight breakfast at the local 24/7 diner than Hairy Guy. As G was being besieged for the fifth and last time by some Pretty Boy who was still working on his VIP room quota, I stood up. Our eyes met. “It’s nice to see a hairy guy up on the stage for a change,” I said.

Hairy Guy ran his hand over my bare shoulder ( I was wearing a V-neck sleeveless pullover ) and smiled, “I think you’re a lot furrier than me.’

Sales pitch or the real thing?

I’ll take it any way I can get it.

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