I’m not secretive at all about my dislike of strippers or strip clubs. I would all but hatch an egg if my man went to one, and I have no desire to cough up money myself to sit in a roomful of hormonal women and drool over some big ol’ greasy, oiled up man named Wild, Wild Wesley dressed in leather chaps, a gun holster and a cowboy hat. And be expected to fork over a cover charge and a handful of my hard-earned singles in the process? Puh-lease. There’s nothing sexy to me about a dude man-twerking in a leopard-print G-string and a pair of boots. For one, it’s not masculine for a guy to dance and prance about in his glory, and two, it’s just kind of cheesy—washboard abs, big schlong and all.
My disdain was confirmed early, when I was still in high school and got invited to a friend’s engagement party. Dinner had been served, guests were filing out and me and my naïve self was sitting on the sofa when I noticed a cop standing at the door talking to the groom-to-be. I didn’t think anything of it—we were in a persnickety neighborhood and I figured someone had complained about the noise or the lack of parking since so many of our cars had taken up all of the free space on the block. But Miguel cut out, Uncle Luke popped on and all of the sudden, the cop ripped off his respectable civil servant uniform and jangled his caboose into the middle of the living room floor.
The crowd went wild. Red Solo cups scattered, paper plates of food were shoved every and anywhere, and women who had previously been sitting there good and ladylike all but crumpled themselves up in their metal folding chairs trying to grab a handful of flesh. It brought out the animals in them. I, on the other hand, just wanted to get the heck out of dodge. And because of my vapid disinterest, he put me in his crosshairs. He swayed his man parts two inches from my face. He crouched down and swiveled his bare butt in the most unwelcome lapdance ever performed. He stood on the couch, put his legs on each side of me and tried to place his satin-covered pouch on the top of my head. Right then and there, in the midst of the clamoring and clawing of my fellow party-goers, I was thoroughly humiliated.
OK, so I admit that I’m not the wildest girl roaming the streets. I’m also not a prude and I try to keep a free swingin’ attitude for other folks. But there’s just something about strippers that calls up the freak in seemingly normal, civilized women. They break out like a pack of hounds at the sight of a penis and a piece of exposed rear end. If you’ve been to a bachelorette party recently, you know firsthand. Hell, I’ve seen bridal and baby showers, even retirement parties, disintegrate into excuses to call in some flesh-peddling male dancer and hoot and holler like those white boys who paint their bellies and scream on the 50 yard line. It is never a shining moment in womanhood.
Last week, I learned what a CFNM party is. My boyfriend emailed me a video link with a subject line that went something like “I Swear on Everything I Love…” and a short message inside that simply said, “If you ever go to one of these, you better not ever let me find out about it.” I clicked and my womanist flag sagged in the wind. CFNM, as it turns out, stands for “clothed female, naked male.” There was a club lined with cheering, screaming women of all races, sizes and levels of attractiveness. The camera panned to an entering dancer, buck naked as the day he was born, moving through the crowd and stopping here and there. As he did, one woman would rub on it. Another would jerk it. And way, way too many of them were willing to get down and give him real, actual factual fellatio while he stood, hand on hip, waiting for her to bust her lusty exhibitionist move. I was appalled. Scratch that—I am appalled.