Warning: If you are under 21 or blood-related to me (that’s you, Dad), please stop reading now. This post is rated NC 17 (Not a Cougar, I’m 17 at heart).
This summer is going to go down in history as one of the hottest ones ever. And I’m not talking outside, I’m talking inside at the local multiplex, where traditionally people go to cool down during the summer.
Me, I’m on fire. At least my eyeballs are. In the span of one weekend, they’ve seen more ass than a toilet, witnessed a penis pump up close and personal, and helped me see the light as to why men need nipples. Greased, tattooed, or however you showcase ’em, they’re clearly the gateway to a rock-hard chest and matching washboard abs.
My foreplay movie was Rock of Ages, starring Tom Cruise as aging Arsenal lead singer Stacee Jaxx. Somebody give that guy an Oscar for so convincingly conjuring the essence of ’80s era rock gods, from Axl Rose to Jon Bon Jovi, that I actually forgot he was creepy Tom Cruise for a couple of hours. He was hired to embody S*E*X, and embody S*E*X he did. His Satanic, bejazzled codpiece was classic, and his insanely ripped body — tummy to tush — was nothing short of a miracle, particularly since Mr. Risky Business is now 50. I’m wondering if that took more CG-animation than his Mission Impossible movies, or if his kibbles ’n bits are the real deal. Only Katie Holmes knows, but she’s not talking, unless it’s on a disposable cell phone.
The climax came a couple of nights later, when I went with my BBFs to see Magic Mike. The air was electric, as giggling gals of a certain age flocked to see the movie in the one theater where you can bring in booze. When I bumped into my gyno in the lobby, I took it as a sign from the Gods of the Happy Vagina that it was going to be a fun night. And what an enjoyable romp it was! On the big screen, there’s no better summer sexy fun than watching a bevy of hot men take it (almost) all off. It’s one of those experiences where before you know it, you’re cackling and catcalling, and wishing there was somewhere real to stuff the fistful of dollar bills you’re clutching. (OK, that was just me. My friends thought the movie was fair, but we all gave Channing Tatum an A+ for cheeky dance moves, and for, well, his Greek-god cheeks.)
All of this cinematic lube was fun, but I found myself thinking about the real strip bars I’ve been to, and how it’s never an Instagram-esque, arty, ab-filled Soderbergh world like Magic Mike. The first stripper I ever saw up close and personal was for my 19th birthday, when my college BBFs hired one to give me a dorm-room lap dance. The guy was a skank with two (unnecessary) bodyguards, and a flaccid member that he kept jamming in my face to the strains of Prince’s stripper classic, “Darling Nikki.” I remember being totally mortified, if not touched that my friends had gone to such great lengths to please and embarrass me.
The next close encounter of the Chippendales kind was at my college BBF’s bachelorette party in the early ’90s. We decided that American strip bars wouldn’t give us the Full Monty, so we’d cross the Michigan border into Canada to get the real deal. There, in a under-lit warehouse with overpriced drinks, my poor bachelorette friend was treated to a bunch of pasty, somewhat flabby, desperate men wagging their willies in her face to “It’s Raining Men.” I still have a touch of penile posttraumatic stress disorder, and I wasn’t even the one sitting in the center of the stripper storm.
I had sworn off strip bars when one day my gay boyfriend told me he and his buddies were going to an underground club featuring male exotic dancers, and would my friend and I like to come? Would I ever! I figured I’d finally get a glimpse of the penultimate stripper: a ripped, hot, hung, gay boy. And I was not disappointed. In a nondescript basement that reeked of Calvin Klein’s Eternity and eager anticipation, the most exquisite male specimen I’d ever seen came out to throbbing house music and an ecstatic crowd. This time, there was no stage blocking our view, no obvious bodyguards thwarting our ability to reach out and touch the dancing magnet or his salami-sized pole (no exaggeration). As the evening’s attraction made his way to us, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, like a dog that heard a high-pitched whistle. Angrily he snapped his fingers, demanding, “Who brought the fish?!” My friend and I were then abruptly escorted out of the club by the bodyguards I’d mistaken for fluffers. It was a walk of shame no woman should ever have to do, and it ended my quest for the ultimate live-action stripper experience for good.
While stripper culture is something that all guys seem to have down to a science, I can’t help but wonder why women seek the same thrill when the reality of what makes us hot is so different. The sexiest part of Magic Mike was the very end, when Channing Tatum gives the girl-who-loves-him-for-who-he-really-is-and-not-just-cuz-you-can-bounce-a-quarter-on-his-ass a sly smile and shyly takes her hand. The girls go wild not for Cruise’s codpiece, but for the chick who finally saddles Stacee Jaxx — pregnant belly proudly stating she’s staked her claim in the rock(star).
This is not to say I don’t enjoy a little eye candy now and again. But I’m a girl who needs a plot to get my juices flowing, and in the end, the guy who takes off the macho crap and exposes real, live, raw emotions — crying at the birth of our children, cheering wildly for our kids’ every accomplishment, lifting me up when I’m down and out — is hotter than a witch’s tit in a brass bra, and the only summer sexy time I ever really want… or need.*
* When I read this to my husband, he asked me to add that I’m also fully satiated by his ripped abs, god-like physique, and something else that shall remain nameless (just in case my dad actually did read this whole damn piece). And ladies — no rhinestone-studded codpiece or ass-less chaps necessary to get my mojo risin’ — so eat your heart out!