I went to an all nude male review once when I was eighteen. I used a fake ID and walked in holding my best friend’s hand in one hand and a Zima in the other. I felt out of place. Very out of place. Someone was getting married or turning twenty – one or something note worthy, so I tagged along.
It wasn’t fun. There were no Channing Tatums or Matt Bomers. They were too skinny or too chubby or too hairy or just all together too . . . wrong. When what I can only assume was a grandfather came out in a tuxedo thong, I bolted for the door, tossed my Zima into the trash and waited in the car for my friends. There was absolutely no way I needed to see Peepaw’s pee pee. My eyes still burn from the pee pee’s I did see. I swore I would never ever darken the door of a stripping establishment again. Ever.
A few years later, my friend Ronnie got engaged. We planned her wedding with painstaking detail, which was way far out of my norm. I don’t really do details. Her sister/maid of honor was taking care of the bachelorette party. It would take place at their parents’ house, and there would be tequila and food and lots of fun games, and then after, we would hop in a limo and head to a night club to dance . . . which anyone who knows me knows I love dancing. A lot.
I arrived right on time to the party. I gave Ronnie a big hug. We toasted a tequila shot and danced around in her mother’s living room which had been transformed into a cute little dance floor with Spanish tile lit up by a retro disco ball.
As the night grew later, I wondered when we might leave for the dance club. Did I mention I love dancing? My friend’s sister strutted into the room and shushed all of the ladies, saying, “I have a huge surprise for you and for you, mija.” She looked at Ronnie who’s red stained lips spread into a wide toothy smile. The lights dimmed, and the first few beats of Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get it On,” blasted through the surround sound speakers. When the lights came on, center stage (or living room) stood a six foot five beautifully cut man in blue jeans and no shirt. His head was down, looking at the floor. My eyes traveled from his bare feet to the v in his waist line that shone just above where his jeans hung perfectly loose against his light brown skin. I took in the definition of his abs, his chest, his shoulders. Then our eyes met. He didn’t react, kept his eyes set on me and started moving his hips. Dancing to the slow beat.
My heart thudded hard in my chest. I gasped. Audibly. Out loud.
This beautifully crafted specimen of the male species, this man who was trailing his long fingers down his chest to the buttons on his faded wonderfully fitted jeans, this man who was now in a cobalt blue silk thong, this man who was watching me, eyes gazing into mine, biting his lip. Sexy as hell. This man. This very almost naked man. Was my.
My high school boyfriend.
My very first love. The first boy to do . . . everything first boys do to girls. And he was dancing in a thong thrusting his self into the air, grinding a make believe something in my good friend’s mom’s living room. And staring at me while he did it.
I’m pretty sure I died. But nope, that wasn’t the end. He started moving around the room. I sat on the end of the couch, and he sauntered right over to me, walk dancing to the beat of the music. He stopped in front of where I sat. I shook my head silently telling him, “No, don’t do it. Please don’t do it.”
But then he did it. He put one leg on the arm of the chair and started bucking the air between his . . . self . . . and my face. I slumped down on the couch, and slipped right under his legs, making a bee line for the door. I sat outside in the scorching sun and waited for someone to come and get me, to tell me this incredibly weird dream was over.
A few minutes or hours or days passed, and then he finally came outside.
“What’s the matter? Why did you leave?”
I couldn’t even speak.
“Don’t be embarrassed. You’ve seen me before.”
Still nothing from me.
We broke up on excellent terms. He and I were still friends. We talked at least a couple times a month, but this little detail of his life remained a mystery to me.
Finally my brain connected to my voice, and I said, “When did you start . . . ” cough ” . . . um . . . ”
“Stripping for bachelorette parties?”
This was apparently a fairly new gig for him. He was working to earn some extra cash to buy a new car. We laughed about how awkward the entire situation was and then went inside and had a drink together. He ended up joining us at the night club for dancing (since he’s a professional), where we promised to keep each other informed of any new career moves.
We still keep in touch and not just because he posts shirtless photos on Facebook all the time, but that helps.