Pay 2 Play
I tell myself that one day my id and superego will reconcile, and I finally stop the epic battle between my brain and my balls. I tell myself that it's all a part of being young, but my deepest fear, and honest belief, is that it's really just a part of being human, and I'll still be trying to settle this conflict when I'm old and rickety.
My dilemma of the moment?
I have a soft spot for strippers. Always have. Probably always will. Regardless of the moral debates surrounding the profession, they drive me absolutely mad. I just pray that I don't end up being that middle-aged guy who goes to Rush by himself with pockets full of singles and just buries my face in a go-go boy's crotch all night.
When I was young and sexually experienced, I would go to stripper night at one of the local gay bars and go absolutely ape-shit. Having only one trick under my belt, I could hardly fathom the idea that these beautiful men would let me touch them.
Obviously I've grown up a bit since then. I've gotten past the awful fact that most of these men are straight, and most of them weren't truly interested in me, and that I am nothing special. But this still can't change my insatiable desire every time I see one of them take the stage.
When I was in college and directing a production of, "The Vagina Monologues", Eve Ensler came to speak on our campus and held a Q&A session at the end. Most of the Qs were not Qs at all, and simply shameless plugs of every attendee's organization for women's rights. The one worthwhile question that came up all night was when a girl asked Eve her thoughts on strippers. Eve replied that she didn't have a stance. Her only advice was to think about what kind of emotional place your desire to strip was coming from, whether it's a position of empowerment or a need to satisfy.
This is a valid argument in the case of female strippers, but when it comes to male strippers, the argument gets a little bit different. On this topic, my moral opposition comes from respect for myself rather than respect for the dancers. Whenever I see one, it takes every muscle in my body not to reach for my wallet and grab a dollar bill just for the chance to touch the delicious male beauty.
What stops me is the knowledge that I'm totally cute enough to not have to pay someone to fake interest in me. Granted, men with bodies like that aren't exactly throwing themselves at me, but when there are people who would fuck me for free, I shouldn't have to pay a dollar to have one sit on me for a few minutes. Whipping that single out and waving it in the air always seems like a good idea at the time, but always leaves me feeling like a loser five minutes later. That tasty male specimen now seems even further away than before.
I don't blame these boys for the job they do. Truth be told, I envy them. If I could enter their line of work, I probably would, but alas. The thing I admire the most is their sexual confidence. If I had that confidence, I'd be set for life. But until one decides to offer me the tricks of the trade, I will continue my fight to keep my wallet closed. So there.
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