In the immortal words of those dirty dogs N.E.R.D, “You can get this lap dance here for free." I always thought this was very astute line considering the multimillion dollar industry dedicated to this erotic performance, but you can indeed get it for free – with no need for suspicious sticky seats. Even I may have been known to put my dance training to good use for the enjoyment of gentlemen, simultaneously breaking my oblivious mother’s heart and that of my bank balance for continuing to buy wholly impractical underwear that after 3 minutes is repurposed to adorn the bedroom floor. If they say that the eroticism of lap dancing was the visual performance, then let me be visual dammit – these pants cost me £35 and you will enjoy them.
But as someone who demands equality in the bedroom, my mind has often considered the concept of the male lap dance. With the recent imposition of Magic Mike with his cheeky blue eyes, his unholy biceps and his ‘Hello Girls’ ad campaign on my daily commute, my mind has been wandering a little more than usual. However, the final destination of this wander is simply ‘Sorry Mike, it’s not you, it’s me. I just don’t find you and your Ken-doll stripper friends attractive. Please don’t put that thing in my face’.
Full disclosure: with the exception of a comedy – but nonetheless disturbing – routine to the aforementioned N.E.R.D song, I have never been on the receiving end of a lap dance, so forgive me if I am missing the trick. I am always open to suggestions. However, before writing the male striptease out of my sexual portfolio for good, I feel I must give it a fighting chance. This will be done through a simple production list, worthy of any artful performance, and of course, a Risk Assessment.
First – Music. What is the best kind of music for your paramour to perform to? Grinding R&B? I’m thinking some early R Kelly (see Sex Me or Freak Dat Body) which could double up as an instruction manual to the stripping novice. After all, there ain’t nothing wrong with a little bump and grind. Or perhaps something a little more sensual, more tender. Like Je T’aime. The song choice is going to be key to setting the ambience and the mood of the lap dance. Never, ever go for ‘Random Shuffle’. Even for comedy value. Remember, most songs are at least 3 minutes and what might be funny for the first few bars soon becomes awkward when you realise you have to endure another 2 minutes 30 seconds of lip synching and ironic gyrating. Word from the wise, believe me. Besides, no one wants a stripper who can’t go the distance. Probably best to back away from Stairway to Heaven. Although if there is a man out there who would like to attempt a striptease to Stairway, please get in touch.
Second – Costume. One of the obvious benefits lady lapdance is the countless possibilities for the titular ‘stripping’ of layers, enabling us to sexily shed our chiffons/fishnets/pleathers. For guys, we’ve really only got the one item separating us from the downtown bonanza. So, boxers or briefs? Boxers, we’re going to have to contend with the fear of escapees with that bagginess up in our grill and, when it comes to briefs, they are too...compacted to be arousing. Unless you are sleeping with a Tatum-a-like, in which case, shalom sister. The one pro for the brief is that they will provide the round-the-thigh tightness necessary to keep everything in its place until the time for the big reveal.
Thirdly – Choreography. The drawers have been drawn and we are presented with our naked man. He’s advancing towards you, hypnotising you with his rhythmic swaying to your chosen track, and then you notice it. Perhaps it has already gently slapped you on the knee – the swinging pendulum of desire. His penis. This is what we’ve been waiting for, look surprised and/or aroused. It’s safe to say the general consensus is that the male member ain’t that pretty. Then again, neither is the vagina – there’s a reason they call it ‘bumping uglies’. Do we really want an ugly bumping into our face in time to music? I think I’ve lost my hard on. Leading neatly to a key aspect of the Choreography risk assessment – perhaps this should come under ‘Costume’, or at least sub-section ‘Presentation’ - what can we expect to be dealing with down there? Will our moans of anticipatory excitement have riled him into a turgid frenzy? Or will the literal performance anxiety leave us with something more deflated? No one wants a flaccid cock helicoptering in their direction but then again, if we consider the alternative, you’re running the risk of taking someone’s eye out – unless you’re in the hands of a seasoned pro. Which the likelihood is, you aren’t.
The one time I saw a male stripper was watching a close friend traumatised by a surprise birthday stripper in front of her extended family. No grandmother needs to see their wee un lick chocolate off a man’s nipples. And I did not need to see my friend bench-pressed by an oiled up gent who later proceeded to essentially tea-bag her on her birthday. No one needs that. But in perhaps one of the strangest moments of our friendship, our eyes met across the room, between the man’s thighs and we exchanged a knowing look, one that said “It’s ok, I’m not aroused either”. Yet with Magic Mike making almost $40 million dollars in its opening weekend and acts like the Chippendales keeping Vegas gyms and wipe down seat manufacturers in business for decades, clearly some of us are. The male stripclub is a wet n wild place where women can be dazzled by rays of light refracting from the tight abs of anonymous men with their girl friends. I, on the other hand, prefer hobo-chic blokes (usually more of the hobo, less of the chic). Transfer this into a stripping scenario and we’re presented with a scrawny man, awkwardly grinding his way through an existential crisis as he contemplates why the hell he is still with me. Not top of my list of fantasies. But the male stripper is exactly that – a fantasy, the most subjective aspect of our sexual appetites. Personally, I have no hunger for a stripping man. Plus there’s always the underlying fear of flashbacks of a particularly debilitating incident from my past involving baby oil. But that’s a story for another time.