Men are easy
This is the tale of one exotic night in Portland. It involves beer, boys and pimply asses. Please let there be no mistakes about it – this is a story about two girls being thoroughly entertained in a male strip club.
I took my own advice this Valentine’s Day. I got out of the house and into the bars with friends. Consequently, I ended up drinking at the most prestigious strip joint in town – Three Sisters, employing only the best male strippers in Portland.
It might sound a bit silly, but the most frightening part of going to the strip club was standing outside, trying to work up the courage to enter. A fellow Vanguardian, Amy, stood outside the bar with me. We smoked cigarettes, hoping to get a nicotine buzz going before walking in.
When we finally bucked up, paid the six-dollar cover, bought a couple of Coronas and found seats way in the back, the fear was gone and the mood was on. Hot guys doing pull-ups in thong bikinis … what more could we have asked for?
At a secluded little table in the back of the room, boys with big wangs walked by, swinging their junk around like we were in the south of France on holiday. At first, we blushed every time one of these dirty, objectified, walking arousements sauntered by our table. Soon enough, however, our drinks were gone and it was time to have some real fun.
The music changed and two new dancers appeared on the stage at the front of the room, one wearing navy blue slacks and the other in nothing but a beanie cap, sunglasses and board shorts. The gentleman with the shorts seemed to be radiating like a Greek god. He had a swimmer’s body and the ass of a shortstop. I was in awe.
Just as I became engrossed in the stage show, another young stallion swaggered over to our table. I suddenly realized how uncomfortably close he was coming to me, but I was too shocked to move. All I could do was blush and smile like a schoolgirl with a crush. He started touching my hair and, before I knew it, he put a dollar in the collar of my shirt and began to lick his way around my neck. Sweet Jesus, it was wonderful and disgusting all rolled into one.
After my stallion moved on to another table, I decided it was time. Time to go sit at the front of the bar, getting up close and personal with the hot dancer with the swimmer’s body.
A little tipsy and definitely nervous, Amy and I sat at the stage, staring up at the swimmer who was now wearing nothing but blue boxer briefs. As he began to slide those briefs further and further down his legs, Amy and I saw exactly what we did not want to see. What we had been led to believe was a hot swimmer/shortstop was really a pimply-assed phony.
The moral of the story is this: if you ever find yourself in a male strip club, it is advisable to stay at your table and drink all the beer you can handle, but please, never ever sit at the rack. The pain of disillusionment is just not worth it.