When I lived in Juneau, Alaska…… strip clubs, porn shops and Hooters restaurants were not readily available.
Occasionally one of the local bars would host a “topless poker tournament” and of course a friend and I couldn’t help ourselves. We went.
The same bar flew in “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” Again, we couldn’t help ourselves and we went.
These same “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” Also came to town as the ring girls for the sponsored UFC style fights. I, of course, went to those (and sat right next to one of the judges…ringside.)
Needless to say, these woman were a disappointment. I think the topless dealers were mothers of ten, who breast-fed until the kids were able to form full sentences.
Their nipples were dragging on the felt.
Who enjoys that?
The “HOT! HOT! Strippers from Anchorage!” While cute – in their early 20’s….were not anything you would expect to see in say….a strip club.
They had paunchy beer guts.
They had cellulite.
THEY WERE IN THEIR 20’s!
Girls in their 20’s are supposed to be trim and tight. Then again, this is Alaska. There is a reason, besides the cold, we are covered up in wool and rubber clothing 11 months out of the year.
Some time in between these adventures in Juneau we had a tourism convention in Anchorage. Leave it to me to pour everyone into a cab late one night and head over to the strip club in Anchorage: The Bush Company.
Yes, I did.
It was a lot of fun.
The women – were “better.”
Not Vegas standards.
Not even midwestern standards.
Definitely better than topless poker tournament dealer in Juneau, Alaska standards.
We bought a couple of lap dances for various members of our party – those people know who they are….ahem. Of course, we picked out the best looking dancers in the lineup. I was not one who received a lap dance – thank you. I don’t need that drama. But appreciate the gesture.
Now I am living in Miami where very little is left to the imagination.
Here is my latest issue. Which was discussed at length today with my “kinder and gentler Mister.”
As we were driving along….there pops up a Hooters. Now, one of our missions on this earth is to find the best chicken wings. Granted, at home we are vegetarian / vegans. Out of the house we will go for fish or chicken wings, a pizza now and then. On a really bad day I will call home and tell him, “I need a cheeseburger…..meet me at …..”
THAT is my weapon of choice.
Just dip me in the blue cheese, and let me lick myself clean really. CHEEEZZZZZZEEEE burgers are my weakness.
Last meal on earth?
At any rate. We go past the Hooters, which I have been to numerous times before throughout my life span.
What is the deal though? Why is it…you get a Hooters with the woman in the shorts and tank tops. Really? I’d like a well-built man to serve me some time. He doesn’t even have to serve me a meal – just bring me drinks.
The Mister says, “Yeah it’s called Chippendales.”
No. It’s not. What I want doesn’t exist. I don’t want the dancing and the grinding….that’s extra nonsense that detracts from the beauty of the body.
It’s embarrassing for him and for me. I don’t need that agony. Thank you. Or else he’s gay. Or he has a girlfriend who is stalking him outside and the whole thing goes to hell in a handbasket in 17.4 seconds.
Women have beautiful bodies. Soft curves.
Men have hard bodies by nature. They are strong and protective creatures. I don’t want to see a man who pumps enough iron that he can pull a tractor-trailer – that to me isn’t attractive. You know the “Arnolds” of the world. I don’t want to see the veins popping out of their necks.
That isn’t hot, sexy or anything in between.
I want a well-defined, nicely built man with a charming personality to serve me a drink.
And those nicely cut muscles along his hips……those ones…… you know the ones I’m talking about ladies. Those muscles …..as a man would say, “hips I can grab on to” muscles.
M E O W.
Men have a plethora of bars, strip clubs, peep shows, restaurants …..all hosted by exotic women. Barely clad in anything resembling a uniform. Let’s not even get started on the magazines.
You know exactly, what I’m talking about here. You go into the club. The ladies greet you. A gorgeous woman give you whatever you ask for. She smiles and asks how has your day been? Hair is being flipped. Eyes are wide. Lips are licked. Oh my. Totally interested in you. Cleavage is exploded, oh so sweetly. Innocently. A touch on the forearm or thigh. Yes, whatever you want. How was your day – oh that sucks….so tough. A laugh and giggle. Another big smile. Can I get you a drink?
Jameson – check.
Double vodka – check.
Budweiser – check.
Chicken wings – check.
Completely and totally into you. Whatever you say and ask for can be yours.
I WANT THIS!
Yet in reality…
What do women get? Jack shit.
Certainly not the same level of peep shows, bars, strip clubs, restaurants or other establishments…hosted by nearly naked men. I am sure they are out there, but not nearly to the same degree. It’s no wonder women are going after the pool boys!
Why is that do you think? Men are visual animals no doubt.
The Mister says this is because, “Men aren’t going to feel comfortable going into a woman’s version of a Hooters.” Yeah well you know what men? You need to buck up and grow some thick skin and get into the game. Woman have had to fluff and puff, pull and tuck, nip and inject themselves to mold themselves into what you find sexy and gorgeous.
Grow a big hairy pair and get some fucking confidence in yourself and get out there.
You know who has confidence in themselves?
Europeans. One word: Speedos.
If you need the name of a great waxer, let me know.
Or, could it be that woman simply don’t have time for the lusty skin bullshit? We simply have more important things to do? Would we rather spend our time elsewhere? We never gave that type of establishment the type of recognition it needed?
Or are we voyeurs behind masks of annonineminty? What the hell?! Imagine, if you will. …. If we were cut loose in a sex club. I’m just saying. Chaos and mayhem. Would you be the one hiding behind the curtain or jumping into the swing?
Look at all the bacholorette parties every year and the must have requirement: the for-hire male stripers. THAT says something. Open an old fashioned phone book and look up “escort” try and search for MALE. You’ll have to wade through 25 pages of female before you can find anyone sending out the boys.
You can pick out men with hookers more easily in a bar than a cougar with a pup. WOW!
Whatever the reason, ladies, we need to be enjoying the view. Pure and simple.
Every day, I pass by giant billboards for mens entertainment clubs: Tootsies. Scarletts.
I pass by sex shops. There’s one the name just make me laugh every damn time, “The Sexy Box.” Yeah, well, the only time it was busy was right before Valentine’s Day. The other I’ve seen billboards and have driven past is “Hustler.” You’ll be glad to know….they also sell….”couples” gifts. Well, thanks.
I’ve been in sex shops. The one thing I regret is I didn’t buy the penis straws when I saw them. Seriously. Saw them in Juneau – didn’t buy them. Now I wish I did. Damn.
Ladies, The boys are going to “the bar” to watch the game. To meet the boys. To discuss a business deal. Yatta yatta yatta. Whatever, that’s fine. It’s their inner caveman coming out. Let them go and oogle. Fine.
Well you know what?
We may only get the pleasure of the ridiculously bad PlayGirl magazine. The yearly calendars with firefighters or the Chippendales. But….there is a great photographer out there….check him out.
Michael Stokes…..find him on Facebook and his book on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/Masculinity-Michael-Stokes/dp/386787428X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1347800523&sr=8-1&keywords=michael+stokes Amazon Amazing. It’s time to stand up and say
Yes, please, I’ll have a martini…make it a double.