It's Christmas time. There's no need to be afraid ... that is, unless you're me, somewhere between pickled and frostbitten on the holiday party circuit. A burp and a giggle beneath the underbelly of Orlando's smut culture is typically where I find myself in these times of consumable inspiration, and this year's no different. And having hiccuped through a bottle of Toad Hollow at Orlando Weekly's respectable holiday affair, there couldn't be anywhere to go but down.
I'm going down.
At the by-invitation-only Dancers Royale Christmas soiree (how did I get here?), the lure is role-reversal entertainment as boys get up on stage where the girls usually are. With the promise of those big yule logs as inducement for the ladies who know how it feels to be fondled, this could be the best Christmas party ever. (Better than the Southern Nights party immediately afterwards? Um, yes.)
Ridiculously dressed in something involving a long coat and an ascot (think Pet Shop Boys in recent Mozart vagabondery), and just two hangovers away from death, I can see my hands shaking their signature anxiety shake at the very thought of this party. Or maybe they're just shaking because they do. Anyhoo, the lovely ladies of the lapdance brigade are milling about in similar anticipation, if not similar dress. Oh, and they're shaking something else altogether.
"I'm going home to change," purrs one in a piece of body-hugging fabric wrapped around a metal neck ring. "This thing is cutting into me."
Oh, just take it off.
Admittedly, my boypals and I are a little cutting ourselves at the man-fest, attracting a few sideways glances from the redneck boys. Which is just, seeing as we'd rather be catching their gazes anyway. It is Christmas, after all. Still, the men are here to watch the women watch the men, which might or might not be an admission that they are comfortable in the presence of a nude male body. You have to start somewhere.
And things are about to start here. Three seats saved by an admitted fag hag await next to the runway, and my friends and I are set to become the drip pan at the end of it. Somebody arrest me. Please
Just then a mirror-glassed police officer strolls that you've-been-naughty stroll along a pathway more typically scuffed by high heels, and on which stand two poles for typically tawdry gyrations. But men don't slide down poles. They've got their own poles to worry about. A suggestive stroll and occasional hip thrust will have to do.
No worries. The ladies are quickly ready to submit to search and seizure beneath his cautionary gaze, squealing away their weak inhibitions and tossing dollars in his wake. Me, I love a man in uniform, but decide instead to act like I don't believe what I'm seeing, sitting there all uncomfortable and shy, in an ascot.
"Oh my God!" I offer, charmingly, sputtering and scoffing like I'm straight. That never works.
A billyclub does, though. And Mister Officer Sir is stroking his up and down, up and down, as if it might be ... it might be ... um ... his penis! Oh, phallicy.
As is standard on this circuit, a simple yank at the crotch removes the entirety of Ponch's pants. By now the girls are whooping like dirty old men never do, and showering dollar bills into every crevice they can find. Me, I'm leaning in a little more now, and trying to catch glimpses of, well, it, as the girls stick their dollar bills deeply into his pouch.
"Here, take this," nudges the boy to my left, slipping a couple of dollars on my lap.
"I can't!" I feign, in an ascot.
"You have to," he commands.
The disrobed disciplinarian catches my consternation and decides to shake his ass somewhere in the proximity of my face, for which I hand him a dollar like I might hand a woman a towel, looking coyly away. At least I got the backside, I'm thinking. Although I hear teabags are quite good for the eyes.
The real controversy this evening was to be whether the men would go all the way, pulling out full parcels on the occasion of a private party. Some tongues had to be in some cheeks as the first offering came in the form of an officer of the law, considering the eggshells (and spilt cocktails) these folk are made to walk on most of the time. But so far, full frontal isn't the name of the game.
Let's see what the sailor has to say about that.
Unbelievably bulbous, tattooed and wretchedly hot, the sailor brings the girls to an extended frenzy, pulling the nymphettes up on stage for full sexual simulation, and I'm having a hard time holding my manicured composure as he eeeks up closer and closer to me. Not only that, I'm leaning closer and closer to him. I'm fairly sure this is as stupid as I get.
When he's through, all of the girls jump to help him gather up his booty, scooping it into his sailor cap and clumping it into his G-string. It's a surreal scene of true Christmas spirit, really ... at least from this vantage point. And alas, I'm warm in my heart.
Did he get naked? Well, Christmas is a time for giving.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
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