Bear Nite at Swingin’ Richards
My other half George and I have visited Swinging Richard’s, Lauderdale’s male strip club (actually located in an industrial park in Pompano Beach), more than half a dozen times, and he fell in love with the dancers there at first sight, though the real fantasy is he thinks they like him, really like him too. But why bust his bubble? After all, if you dig ‘em young, these mostly smooth, mostly built and mostly hung men are, for many, the epitome of male beauty as they cavort the stage in all their haughty nakedness. Me? I like ‘em more seasoned, bearded and definitely furry. So when Swingin’ Richard’s held its first ever Bear Nite over last month’s Presidents Day weekend, my response was:
“About fucken time!”
G, with his fascination with watching young men’s pubic hairs grow in, wasn’t interested, so after hitting Slammers , our sex club, where the feeding frenzy for hard cock rewarded me, I decided to swing by Swingin’ Richards where I ended up parking on the grass. The place was mobbed, more mobbed than any night we had gone. The crowd ran the gamut from thin twinks to hot fuckers to middle aged men, some of whom looked like they were about to give birth to twins. But we all shared one common trait – a lust for beefy, furry men.
Recognizing many of the dancers on stage as the club’s smooth regulars, I thought at first the place was pulling some bait and switch game, but then up on the stage popped the kind of guys I had forfeited a second blow job at Slammer’s for. Some super musclemen, others just beefy, a few even with pot bellies, ah, but unlike Swingin’ Richard’s usual photoshopped fare, they were all pure sex for me because they were REAL.
As I cruised around with my Bud Lite in hand – there was no place to sit – I had the honor and the privilege to chat with two of them, both of whom , if the stars had been in alignment, I would have bought for the night. Short like me, humpy, hairy, bearded. And, since I had already seen them naked – well endowed.
The first named Matt recognized me from my Facebook page, infamous for my provocative selfies, and he jokingly promised to message me for some of my “private stock” of pics. (Wanna trade, handsome?) And then there was Bill who I knew from Crunch, our getting-gayer-by-the-day gym, and the Ramrod, our leather bar, where he worked as a bartender on Underwear Night. He was definitely one of those guys who looked better with no clothes on, and trying to keep my hard-on in my jeans, I asked if the dancers received a base salary. “No, just tips” he said, flashing his killer smile, as he gestured to the Caesar salad of dollar bills bulging from his arm bands.
The narrow hall which led to the VIP rooms where guys could be treated to a private dance by their favorite man – for $150 for fifteen minutes of course – was like a highway at rush hour. And it wasn’t just old men who were taking advantage of the club’s “hospitality” – many were also real young like the twenty-five year olds who keep hitting me up on Adam4adam and Daddyhunt.
Even I was tempted. Hell, if my credit cards weren’t loaded with some out-of-the-blue home emergency bills, I would have loved to deposit some money on Bill, either in his flashy PA. Or where the sun don’t shine.
Ain’t fantasy grand? And I ridicule my other half for wet-dreaming.
Raymond, wake the fuck up.