“I’m not gay … BUT five bucks, is five bucks …”

I imagined him shouting over the soothing base line of “Private Dancer,” his body candy coated in rooty tooty fresh-n-fruity body glitter.  After all, school was expensive and well there were those chocolate candies at Neimans’ he loved.

I sat in his flat glaring at the sateen, crimson thong laid carefully in front of me.  “So yeah, I mean I actually auditioned at a strip club sophomore year but …” he paused “After I realized you actually have to dance, I didn’t go through with it.” Hmmm … kind of like the first time I really understood what giving a bj was about. I mean because no one I know is actually sitting around thinking I sure would love to suck a d*ck tonight.  It takes some effort … and by effort I mean a cocktail or two, followed by the will to succeed. Not that I speak from personal experience or anything :/.

“Oh … uhmmm, ok” I said studying the banana hammock placed before me. “Soooo, I mean – but why did you keep the thong?” Who was I kidding, you’re not going to not keep the crimson, sateen thong of the day you almost became a male stripper. Surely, there were guidelines and bi-laws explicitly outlining the disposal of cherry, cherry quite contrary undergarments. Besides, after a booze filled night of stripping and cocaine – what happens to a thong deferred? You take it back to your flat apparently.

“Nostalgia, I suppose” he said scooping it off the table. “Forget it” he mumbled disappearing into darkness.  And when he reappeared we didn’t speak of it again. UNTIL earlier tonight when I received a text with a photo of a suspicious pair of “fireman boots” so gallantly beaming. To completely understand this we have to journey back to the summer of 03.

My cousin, let’s call her Daisy Duke, that side of the family hails from the deep, deep south, decided to have her last fling before the ring in a double wide on the outskirts of “Wrong Turn” by way of Let’s Never Come Here Again, But I’m so Glad we did because this is going to make an awesome story one day.  The evening started out like any other Bridal Bon Voyage – there was penis cake … penis bingo … a dingo ate my penis Pictionary … you get the gist.  There was a theme, and penis was its Name-O!

Jell-O-shots chalked full of moonshine began to flow and before I knew it, I was passenger in Trans-Am number #4.  Destination … The Dusty Rose.  Now as this is in fact the tiniest town EVER, as one might imagine entertainment options of the adult persuasion are virtually non-existent.  And so this particular establishment doubles as an all you can eat Asian seafood buffet from 9am-5pm, Monday-Friday; which was actually quite brilliant because Mi So Horny Hungry.  But I digress …

From the moment we hit the indoor/outdoor linoleum dance floor I knew we were in for a treat.  The air was peppered with Sex Liger cologne and wild abandonment as Nelly’s “Country Grammar” played over the two speakers in the corner.  “WhEeeeWWWwwww” we shrieked with “Girls Gone Wild” fervor. Daisy tossed her hair as if she were reenacting a scene from Robin Sparkle’s “Let’s Go to The Mall,” her light up penis necklace a blaze of glory. We weren’t there longer than ten minutes before some nice cowboy sporting an American flag short set sent over a round of blow jobs for the “classy ladies.” Touché sir … Touché.  You are an officer AND a gentleman and cowboy. You make that American Flag short set look super fierce too. #Werk.

Several bj’s and a slippery nipple later I noticed what could best be described as a full on Swayze dropping it like it was hot, and popping it back up like it was even hotter.  It was “Willy Dee,” Daisy’s neighbor and our 2nd cousin twice removed. His father Robert E. Lee,  married my deceased grandmother’s cousin’s daughter, Maldotha. He looked like a lost member of Cult Jam.  There he gyrated,  all five feet two inches of him, his lower extremities held in place by a faux fur loin cloth and a heart of dixie bandana.  Ok, so he’s like a little Eskimo, rebel soldier stripper. I get it. Wrong.  That may have made sense (or not), except he was wearing a fireman’s hat and what appeared to be split sole cheernastic sneakers.  He must have read my thoughts, because the moment I noticed his Asics he totally nailed a back tuck into a round-off spilt. DA-YUM Willy Dee! We see you. No seriously, we see your Willy-“D.”

The crowd erupted into a thunderous applause as he wind-milled his Willy-D … up down, round and round. I, completely mortified at this point, composed myself enough to throw a crinkled five dollar bill to the floor. I also threw up in my mouth a little bit, what I now realize was the beginning of acid reflux. It was too much.  As I surveyed the room, our lively motley crew seemed to share my sentiments.

“He lost me at the split” Daisy said.  “That and the loin cloth with the split sole Asics … I think we use to cheer in those.”  Who was she kidding, you cheered in white prosti cow-girl boots, denim shorts and a two sizes, too small glitteratti sports bra.

Perhaps the most surprising component of the evening came from Mr. American Flag short set cowboy, who got all broke back mountain from the time Chipendouche hit the floor.  He had to have shelled out twenty … twenty three dollars at the very least.  Keeping in mind, this is in a town where at this time a vat of Pringles, pickled pig ear and side of slaw was a nickel – tax included.

Things continued to descend downhill from there rather quickly.  Especially after Willy Dee started in on an interpretive dance set to a re-mix of “Too Legit … Too Legit, To Quit.”  It wasn’t legit at all. It was the opposite of legit. And it was super awkward to watch. We left a few minutes later, but the damage was already done.

And so friends, as I sat in the living quarters of my former beloved that I may have found myself slightly more attracted to in that moment; I wondered if there was in fact some validity to his story of a lap dance deferred.  We had some pretty amazing romps in the sack, and there is a quality about him that lends itself well the world of the strange and unusual.  Not to mention his A+ stamina,  theatrical style of dress and charming personality. Less we forget the yellow fireman boots and now this mysterious red man thong. Wait … why did we part ways again?

Last year after my grandmother’s funeral I ran into Willy Dee, this former wily temptress is now the Assistant Manager at the Jitney Jangle; where I asked him if he was still dancing.  “Nah …” he said reluctantly offering a nugget of wisdom.  “Man … dang on man, the money was good” he stammered.  “But then you got all them dang on men trying to take you home and well … I ain’t gay, but five bucks is five bucks.”

Well, I definitely couldn’t argue with logic like that.  And the church said a-woman.


About The.Pretty.One

"I will never be the woman with the perfect hair, who can wear white and not spill on it.” - Carry Bradshaw The Pretty One is the youngest daughter of a former 70s pageant queen and her first husband, a wealthy financier. A former debutante and southern belle, this Steel Magnolia is anything but. A visionary, she is the owner and creative mind behind a successful boutique communications and event firm. But what I really want to do is dance ... and blog.
This entry was posted in Being Single, Break-Up, File Under Awkward Moments, free advice, Gays, Girls Who Like Boys, Going Out, Humor, Love, Marriage, Memories, Men, Relationships, Sexy Time, Text Message, Why You Have No Boyfriend, Why You're Single, Women, WTF. Bookmark the permalink.

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