Monthly Archives: December 2013

Relax, it’s just sex.

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I don’t really like strip clubs, and given the choice will avoid them altogether.

Sadly, when a man makes a statement like the previous, there aren’t many who will truly believe him, as I’m sure many of you are currently furrowing your brows in an understandable expression of skepticism. It’s not that you’re making any assumptions about me personally, but as human beings you know that I, like you, am possessed with a natural degree of sexual depravity. The miscommunication lies in the fact that people always interpret my words as “I don’t like looking at naked women.” On the contrary, I am a big fan of the female body, probably one of the biggest fans. What repulses me about the notion of strip clubs is not only the concept of paying to be sexually frustrated, but the way in which it is so stigmatized by polite society, creating an atmosphere synonymous with sin and regret.

On the occasions that I have gone to strip clubs, the scene is always the same. The bouncer triple checks my I.D., always handing it back with reluctance and fixing me with a threatening glare, making me feel like I’ve done something wrong before I even cross the threshold. Upon entering the club, the world suddenly becomes ten shades darker, and only a select few spotlights illuminate the stage, while dozens of men sit motionless just beyond the shadows. The girl on stage keeps her eyes down, retreating from reality for the duration of her performance, and I can never decide whether she’s ashamed of herself or disgusted by us. My guess is that she’s ashamed of herself BECAUSE she’s disgusted by us, and who can blame the poor girl? We come in and skulk into chairs all around her, sipping our beers, and holding up dollar bills as our only mode of communication. We create an invisible barrier, behind which she becomes an object for us to exercise our lustful nature, and we become a faceless manifestation of creepiness that she has to endure in order to pay her bills on time. Mind you, this detached relationship is something we adopt by choice, not necessity. When’s the last time you asked a stripper how her day was, or complimented her technique, or showed her any amount of human decency? Probably never.

As a result, the strip club has become like a secret sin dungeon:  a popular destination for bachelor parties, business trips, or any group of men seeking a getaway from their sexually repressive home life. As soon as the decision is made, every member of the group is sworn to silence so that when it’s all said and done they can go back to being chivalrous boyfriends and devoted husbands. But why the charade? That inclination to conceal our behavior, to hold these rendezvouses in the darkest corners of the city is precisely what gives strip clubs such a seedy reputation. It’s not the thing itself but our collective attitude toward it. When you come home after being out for a while, and your dog is hiding in the corner with a guilty look on it’s face, is your first reaction not to begin chastising that dog even before you discover what it did? It’s not any type of physical evidence that leads you to assume the dog has done something wrong, but merely because the dog is acting as if it has done something wrong. On that same note, when a man acts ashamed for going to a strip club, one immediately assumes it is because he did something deserving of that shame.

The experience is debasing because we refuse to be open about our perverse nature. Instead, we act as if lust is some twisted aberration that’s been forced upon the human condition, and we isolate it from the rest of our character like a contagious disease. We pretend that that lustful part of us doesn’t exist, so that our female counterparts can go on deluding themselves into thinking that we’re different from the others, that we don’t have the same instincts. Granted, some guys are different, but only in the way they manage their desires, by exercising them in moderation and at regular intervals. The rest of us act like a 13-year-old with his first porno mag, burying our desires just below the surface of conscious thought, only setting them free when no one is looking.  I’m not saying that we should integrate strip clubs into our weekly routine or openly exploit our baser nature like some modern day Sodom and Gomorrah, but we should at least be able to be open with each other about what we are.

 

 

Dance Class, pt. 2

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There are a lot of things about me that I’m thankful for, but there are few traits I appreciate more than my ability to dance. You would never think, by observing the men at a family wedding, that moving to a beat would be one of my strong suits. Most of my uncles and male cousins need ten drinks before they can confidently take the floor, and at that point it’s just because they’re too drunk to care. Nevertheless, by some miraculous twist of genetic fate, this seemingly conventional white kid was blessed with unstoppable rhythm, and I could not be more grateful. Although it’s just for fun, I don’t even consider it a hobby:  I dance because I have to. I don’t just feel the beat because that would suggest some level of control on my part. When that rhythm hits me with both barrels, the feeling is more comparable to a demonic possession that rips through my body, screaming to be exercised.

I tell you this not only to provide a brief window into my soul, but also to establish that my motives for attending a dance class are pure. Granted, for some people that disclaimer isn’t necessary, as they ask why any self-respecting man would be caught dead in a class full of female dancers; however, I feel the need to defend myself to those among you who understand that that question answers itself. Dancers, as a whole, are absurdly hot. They have toned legs, tight cores, and asses that defy the laws of physics. There have been many a class in which I have stared in awe, not from lust, but out of sheer disbelief that a butt that big could be that perfectly spherical in shape.

In my current dance class, there is one such angel that comes from the ranks of posterior perfection. My weekly object of ocular affection is Alicia: the persistently upbeat former Cavs girl that instructs the class. I try not to stare, but not only does Alicia face away from the class when she’s teaching but she frequently directs our focus toward her hips and legs; therefore, it would seem odd if I was looking anywhere other than that incidental work of art that she calls an ass. Even if she catches me in the act, I can plead innocence. Unless, of course, she reads this blog. Then I’m screwed.

I always try to maintain a safe distance, at least at first, for two reasons. Primarily, like a bug zapper shimmering through the darkness of a summer night, beauty has a tendency to blind even the best of men to their better judgment. Secondly, leading with my animal instincts has almost never gone well for me. Sure it’s great at first, but when you’re lost in the moment, you tend to forget that there exists a tomorrow in which these very same people will be waiting to hold you accountable for your actions.

In my previous post of the same title, I briefly mentioned a redhead who seemed to eye me as if I were a steak dinner, and upon further review she has come to stand as a perfect embodiment of my need for restraint. She’s small and flexible, with a pretty face, and a series of body tattoos that stand out in contrast to her pale, freckled complexion: aesthetically, she was batting a thousand. Nevertheless, once she started talking, she became about as pleasant as a sandpaper condom, revealing a personality designed for driving men to suicide. I’m really not trying to be mean here, but believe me when I say that this girl would make anyone want to reach for something sharp.

I know it’s difficult for me to objectively discuss the physical proportions of a gender I’m naturally attracted to, because the act is inherently perverted. However, I beg you not to see it as one person ogling another, because that would ignore the massive respect I have for dancers and the amount of work they put into their craft. Dancers don’t set out with the ultimate goal of attaining  incredible bodies. They work to improve their art, pushing themselves to their physical limits and exploring the endless kinesthetic capabilities of the human body; the sculpting of gravity-defying rear ends is merely a positive by-product. So, in reality, my wandering eyes aren’t driven by voyeuristic deviance, but by heartfelt artistic appreciation.