By Liz Crowe
There is a lot of talk lately about this man stripper movie. I’ll be the very first to admit that I paid hard cash to go see it not once but twice in the theater. I’m a sucker for a good man flesh show, especially when it involves one of my absolute favorite little bad boys: Alex Pettyfer.
But enough about me and my cougar-ish obsessions.
Well, ok, more about me. I am one of those somewhat rare married women who don’t freak out when my man goes to a strip club. Not that he does it much, mind you. They are expensive. I know. I’ve been to a couple with him.
My first experience was in Vegas—somewhat of a Rose-Tinted Glasses experience mind you. (He kept saying: “They are not all like this. They are not all like this,” as we made our way through the experience). We went straight for one of the Big Ones: The Spearmint Rhino (I have no idea why it is called this but know there is one in London and one in Vegas). I knew we had made the right call when we wandered out of the MGM Grand in our dress-up clothes, got in the long line for cabs, were asked by the bellboy where we were headed and told him. Then were whisked out of the line of apparent peasantry and guided to a lovely limo, complete with complimentary booze.
“Oh,” I thought, out loud apparently. “How nice.”
“Yeah,” he said, pouring me a splash of bourbon. “We’ll be paying for it don’t worry.”
“But the very cute boy in the uniform said it was ‘complimentary.’” I protested, sipping and watching the Strip as we whoosh past.
He grinned and leaned back, letting me have my naïve moment.
So we arrive, and as it is not during a giant electronics show where the place would be over flowing and in the middle of the week, we are greeted by….our very own friends! Right at the door! I tell you, my new BFF looked like Sandra Bullock…only….you know…without a shirt on. Once she and the gal who’d made a bee-line for my spouse figured out we were there AS a couple, they very likely shot each other a knowing wink that said “Our night is made.” After I quickly said I was really there for the “full experience” you know for “my writing” they got even more happy, lead us to a nice comfy couch and we settled in to watch the show.
This place was very cushy (as I realize now that I’ve been to a less nice one), and the ladies were very lovely (more so than most I also realize) and damn I was popular! I mean, they let me go right up to the girl doing her thing on the stage and tuck bucks and touch legs and stuff. I was encouraged to touch a little, and once I realized I was part OF the show, well….all bets were off. I could practically feel my spouse rolling his eyes and saying “Oh hell, there she goes” as I am an attention whore at best and have no qualms singing karaoke or tucking bucks. But of course, he was pretty happy with his new buddy so he didn’t complain much.
Those drinks kept coming and my friend was so...friendly, at one point I glanced over to see my spouse watching, drink in one hand, smirk fixed in place, near nekkid girl hanging off his other arm and I thought---“A ha! This is what this is about. Making a man feel like he’s George Flipping Clooney, for a price.” Because, after a couple of hours (or maybe 3, I lost count, seriously the people watching in this place!) the hubs leaned across the table, ran his hand up my leg and leaned to whisper sexily: “You just hit your budget. Time to go.”
I pouted, he signaled for the bill, and like that POOF! My sexy Sandra Bullock was gone! I was shocked, I tell you. We had a real friendship going. He just laughed, signed, dropped some more cash in my hand and hauled me to my feet. I stumbled a little—and trust me when I say a vodka and Red Bull hangover in Vegas is a nasty thing to behold, handed Sandra her final tip, and left. Nothing to it. And we got to take a taxi back.
So I decided to get in on the other side, and go to the man show the next night. It was a bit of a disappointment because the whole thing they do in Magic Mike in Florida was NOT what was allowed at the club I went to in Vegas. I did have a buddy and his name was “Grant.” He was an amazing specimen and he knew it. But I think I liked the Rhino better, overall. And I am neither bi- nor curious. But it was just a nicer damn place.
I will say, it truly does give you a level of respect for people who are:
Able to count large stacks of one dollar bills
Sure enough of themselves to really do that thing—you know, where the half nude dude IS your dream romance novel hero, or the topless girl IS the woman you’ve always dreamed of. Until you hit your budget. And then suddenly they’re the same thing for the person next to you.
Bottom line for me? Enjoy the show. Don’t take it or yourself too seriously while you are enjoying it. And don’t disrespect the guys and gals who are providing it for you. I’m a bar owner and I think they sense it about me a mile away as if a “GIANT OVER-TIPPER HERE” sign is flashing over my head. But I’m here to tell ya, Sandra and Grant would make a lovely couple, if only to compare notes about the “writer doing research” that week in Vegas.
My latest releases are ESCALATION CLAUSE: STEWART REALTY BOOK 6 and Paradise Hops (stand alone brewery-based novel that has just received a Gold Star from Just Erotic Romance Reviews).
My website: www.lizcrowe.com
My blog: www.brewingpassion.com