_ the other press

Op-Ed

Section Editor: Erin Culhane

 

  
  

plentine’s Day has come and gone, and now we have to
ait until Easter for another excuse to gorge ourselves on
ocolate. I always find this lull in holidays depressing, so
an attempt to lighten the mood, I’m gonna tell you
bout my night with St. Nick Big Dick and Pony. It was
dark and stormy night in December that I was invited
partake in the birthday celebrations of a dear friend. It
as her 26th birthday and as I am usually a bit of a lame-
s—always retiring early every time we step out togeth-
, | promised to go along with whatever she had
anned. Guilt makes me do stupid things. Turns out she
hd reserved a table at a local bar that was hosting
adies’ Night.”

Now, | knew full well that “Ladies’ Night” meant male
ippers and I was not looking forward to it. Up until
at weekend I had managed to avoid ever seeing a naked
an dance around on a stage—and I was none too keen
the idea. But it was her birthday, and the more I
otested, the stuffier I felt. She had a point—I had never
ren, so how could I judge? In retrospect that is a stupid,
pid argument. She had no point—I am just a sucker.
ow what a naked man looks like. I know what a man
ncing looks like. I know that the combination is not a
r-on for me. I can’t even bear to watch a fully-clothed
an shake it up on the dance floor without feeling a

 
    
   
   
   
  
   
  
   
   
  
   
  

opinionsubmit@hotmail.com

sroad’s Eye View

smidgen embarrassed. Ah, but like I said—guilt is a ter-
rible and amazing force.

Anyway, so we finished dinner and a group of us
“ladies” headed on over to the club for “Ladies’ Night”.
There were perhaps 30 women in the room. A couple of
stag-ettes, a 19th birthday party, some sad-looking
women with low-cut shirts, low-rise jeans and bodies
incapable of accommodating such outfits, and us—a
motley crew of nine women (two visibly pregnant).

Our reserved table was directly up front—sniffer’s row,
if you please. I was horribly uncomfortable, perched on
the edge of the dance floor, as I took note of the exits and
washrooms. A pomaded deejay came bounding around
trying to whip up some enthusiasm in the crowd. Our
table was decidedly lame—made up of the jaded, the
bitchy, and the mortified. Deejay, who was hooked up to
a headset mic, tried to get us to scream and clap—threat-
ening to delay the show until we did. Feeling pressured
by the offensively underdressed and unbecomingly eager
women seated behind us, we acquiesced with a pathetic
chorus of “who-hoos.” He looked annoyed as he twirled
away, shimmying over to the raunchy stag-ette across
from us. They were much more accommodating—
screaming, pounding their feet and chugging Bacardi
Silvers.

After a few more agonizing attempts to whip the
women into a mad frenzy, Deejay announced that the
dancers were on their way. Cue the cherry-scented bar
smoke and what to my wondering eyes should appear—
but three miniature men and a luke-warm beer. It was
painful—they were performing this funny little choreo-
graphed dance and they were all very short, but they were
clothed. So far, so good. The tiniest of the three did a lit-
tle bump and grind in our direction and I couldn't help
but burst out laughing. He was so tiny! My friend was
nursing a drink and talking to an old friend, and the rest
of the birthday guests were either chatting or staring dis-
interestedly at spots on the floor or the walls. After
receiving no acknowledgment for his efforts, our tiny
dancer looking as though he had been slapped, gyrated
away. But he would have his revenge...

Flash-forward past a few stupid drinking games and
another pathetic attempt to rile up the masses, and we
come to the first actual show. Tiny Dancer sauntered
onto the stage to the booming introduction, “Ladies, let’s
hear it for St. Nick Big Dick!” Wearing leather short
shorts, vest and boots—all trimmed with white marabou,
and an adorable little hat—I have to say he was the fun-
niest thing I had seen in a very long time. He taunted and
teased the women on the other side of the bar—shaking
his little bottom and tossing his little head—and was
warmly received. The cold front from our side was hard
to ignore. I saw him look over and steel himself. I didn’t
like his expression—or the way he looked in those short-
shorts—so I quickly excused myself and ran to the sanc-
tuary of the smoking room.

I escaped just in time. Tiny Dancer wasn't going out
like that. Nuh, uh. From my vantage point I was able to
safely watch the scene as it unfolded. Moving quickly (as
small men tend to do—a scurrying action, really,) he
grabbed hold of one of the women I had met at the
restaurant only hours ago, and yanked her out of her seat
and on to the dance floor. She never knew what hit her.
Within seconds he had her face down on the floor, where

February 19, 2003

he proceeded to mount her and simulate rear-entry sex.
It couldn't have lasted more than a minute, but it felt like
forever. She was humiliated and angry. Tiny Dancer, aka
St. Nick Big Dick, seemed quite pleased with himself—
he was no jolly old elf, rather a wee man with wee man
syndrome. Disgusting.

I would like to tell you we packed it in and left in a
huff. But alas, no one—not even Tiny Dancer’s recent
victim—was hip to the idea of leaving. The drinks were
cheap and besides, “Pony” was up next. I had no idea
who Pony was, but according to my friend, he’s a regular
dancer with a decent fan base. Reluctantly leaving the
Plexiglas confines of the smoking room, tired of pretend-
ing to smoke, I returned to our table as Pony made his
way front and centre. Some of the women at our table
perked up when they saw him and one birthday guest
informed me that not only was he the only black dancer
that night, but that he does “freaky things with his dick.”
Hmm, why oh why didn’t I run the hell out of there right
there and then? A combination of peer pressure and
cheap draft might account for it—and I suppose curiosi-

Well, I didn’t leave, and I guess I deserve to be haunt-
ed by the image now cached in my memory bank for all
eternity. As luck would have it, Pony’s showcase talent is
tucking his penis and testicles under and back so they
face directly behind him. I don't know if you're getting
the visual here, so allow me to elaborate. With his “par-
cel” held firmly back between clenched thighs, Pony then
performed a little jig—pausing every few moments to
shrug, scratch his head and peer sheepishly down at the
smoothness of his crotch. Did I mention he was dressed
as an elf?

Yeah, so that pretty much did it for me. Luckily my
friend’s drunken cousin, in her eagerness to cheer on
Pony, spilled an entire drink all over me. I had a guaran-
teed out. Soaked in some maraschino cherry-laced con-
fection, I wished my friend a happy birthday and ran for
home.

As I trudged up the hill to my apartment, I worked
really hard to forget about what I had seen, but my mind
was spinning with greasy images of marabou and con-
torted penises. I felt so incredibly turned-off at that
moment. | consider myself to be a fairly sexual person,
but what I had just witnessed sent my libido crashing. I
love men and I love their bodies, but ugh—at that
moment I never wanted to lay eyes on man-flesh again.
Panicking, I forced myself to conjure favourable images
of masculinity: five o'clock shadow, the swooping curve
of an Adam's apple, calves with hair on them (not shaved
and slicked with oil) and that little sliver of flesh
glimpsed when a shirt rides up. Ah, the good stuff. By the
time I put my key in the door, I had talked myself down.

Now that some time has passed, I’m not sorry I went.
It was an experience, and at least I can say with some
authority that there are better ways to celebrate special
occasions than with male strippers. The best part is I no
longer “owe” my friend; in fact she is now indebted to
me. I cannot wait to drag her out of her comfort zone
and subject her to an evening I know she will hate. What
shall it be? A night of Lindy hop or maybe some live
music with the corduroy and cardigan crowd? Oh the
possibilities.

 

 

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