I consider myself a bit of a sponge. Not in the sense of my hygiene, although I do fancy the occasional shower. And by occasional, we're not talking Colin Farrell level of showering: I am familiar with a bar of soap as opposed to poor movie-star grunge king, Colin. My spongelike abilities relate to my worldly understanding. I am constantly learning and have grown into an encyclopedia of useless information. This past Memorial Day weekend, I was educated on something so far outside my realm of worldly understanding that I felt the need to share my news with everyone out there reading.
I will preface that my new discovery may be deemed foul by just about anyone without a sexually criminal background, but I would like to share nonetheless...
Yesterday afternoon, we had a group of people over at our rooftop pool in West Hollywood. We were grilling meats, turkey, chicken, and raising the level of debauchery ever seen on that tattered deck. Prior to ascending up the elevator, I had a few friends show up. Amongst this crew was my dearest friend Jade, along with our friends Kenny and Stan. Kenny was eager to show me a proud purchase he had made earlier that morning. Kenny has recently begun dating a guy with an "underwear fetish". For those who don't know, an underwear fetish is rather self-explanatory. Some form of underwear, jockstrap, crotchless panties, or mesh knitting is generally involved throughout the sexual interlude. I'm a bit more vanilla and boring in my sexual appetite, but I implore others to try what works for them. Kenny, excited to show me his new prize reached into a bag and removed what appeared to be a mesh doily. They were his new pair of fetish pants. It was a mesh pair of briefs - completely see-through - with an entirely open backside for "easy entry". This defied the purpose of underwear to me, but I have a lot of my own strong opinions, so I ignored that. Kenny asked me what I thought and I awkwardly responded: "How cute..." I really didn't understand the full allure to this underwear-substitute, but again, I don't understand ball-gags and facial urination, so call me old fashioned. When my friends get into such things, I feel like the Dick Cheney of the group: conservative, small-minded, and rich. Well, not rich. I never feel rich, but the first two work. Plus, if I haven't been to the gym all too much that week, I may feel Dick Cheney bloated, so you get the idea.
I asked Kenny if this was a regular fetish for him and he insisted no. "The guy I'm seeing is really into it, so I'm getting into it." He then pointed to the underwear, focusing on the crotchless back side: "These aren't going to come off until I get off!" Ok. Sounds good to me. To each their own. I'm far more white bread, myself, preferring Latin and Middle Eastern men with strong personalities putting me in my place. How Judy Cleaver of me...
As Kenny retired to my bathroom to try on his new personal present, I got to chatting with Jade and Stan. They kept referring to Kenny as a "dancer" of sorts and I was lost. "Since when has Kenny been a dancer?? Where does he dance?" The conversation had still gone over my head. Stan and Jade began to giggle as I was brought up to date. "Kenny used to be a go-go-boy at Rage years ago." Now I was confused. Kenny's about 23 years old and looks like an infant. He would be carded grabbing a cup of coffee out of fear he may be a fetus; so how was he a dancer years ago?? I was really confused.
Kenny returned from the bathroom, changed back into his pool attire, shy to show his naked undies to us. We wanted a fashion show, but alas, we were dreadfully disappointed. What came to follow was equally a game changer for me, so I have no regrets.
As Kenny approached my first floor balcony, where the rest of us stood, I didn't waste a moment wondering: "So... were you a go-go-boy?? How did I not know this??" Kenny answered openly: "I used to dance at 'Rage' in West Hollywood, for a few months..." Now, amongst my circles of friends, we tend to avoid 'Rage'. No shade thrown there, but it is more an establishment where the likes of young boys are met with their future through the presence of awkwardly pedophile-esque men. I mention the future as these boys tend to meet their future in the back of an alley-way rather quickly after "last call". Kenny, having been a dancer at this establishment years ago had me overly eager with questions. "Tell me everything, EVERYTHING!" I insisted.
Kenny began to share as many details as one would want. It was mostly generic stripper gossip, until a true gem left Kenny's lips. I asked him what kind of attire they wore for a night's gig. Kenny explained tiny briefs were the standard, then continuing "that I had started 'tucking' rather quickly after I started, having learned from the other dancers. They were all doing it..." I stood there thinking: "You got to be shittin' me, woman." I didn't understand what I had just heard. For those of you who don't know, 'tucking' refers to the binding and undertuck of one's penis to hide it from visibility. Drag Queens do this while performing as well as Buffallo Bill's character from 'The Silence of the Lambs'. Here we had female illusionists and a sociopathic murderer as our 'tucking' examples. Since when did strippers tuck? Don't we want to see someone's manhood?? I was lost. It was clicking in yet. I felt like the kid in the back of the class, picking his nose, and daydreaming through a fire alarm. I was not understanding this conversation.
I quickly stopped Kenny upon the use of the word 'tucking'. "Ex-cuse-a-fuck-what?? Tucking?? Why??" I felt like an audience member after any episode of the ABC cryptic series 'LOST'. I was lost. Still.
Then it was all explained: "Since it's all old men paying the strippers' tips, we had to do what would make us the best tips..." I was still somewhat lost. It seems that the Rage-filled clientele included many old men seeking young babes. Part of that fantasy, "like a Ken-doll. They don't want anything more than a smooth body, a round little butt, and zero genitalia." Oh my Oprah, I began to understand. As I stood there seeking a fork to scratch out my eye-balls, I contemplated the dirty nature of this all. There are old men out there looking for pube-less, penis-less babes to spoil. Excuse me a moment while I throw up. And... there it is again. Mentally, I'm surrounded in puddles of vomit by this news. I asked: "Why not just wear diapers?" To which Kenny responded: "Some guys did. They made the best tips. Across the board." All I kept thinking was: "How did I never connect the dots before?? This is a mess, but not as surprising as it is vial."
Whatever happened to the days when premarital intercourse was a life ruining embarrassment? Now we have old men and kids with no genitalia and diapers... Hmmmm... For those friends out there who have drunkinly peed in public only to be met with "sexual offenders" status, take a deep breath in knowing that you are nowhere near the real sexual offender status.
All I can say is thank Oprah I have no intentions to have children, because I don't think I could ever look at a diaper the same way again.
There's your education lesson for your Memorial Weekend. Next time, please give your teacher an apple. I prefer Granny Smith.
Thoughts or opinions?
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