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But it's even harder to imagine a woman coming up with this show. Even the choreography smacked of late-period Janet Jackson, with lots of slow-mo air punching, synchronized thrusting and stomping. Even professional sex workers sometimes don't know what's sexy.
Still, it's a surprisingly orderly affair. There was a camaraderie among the women, something unifying about having paid to ogle these dudes. Superman stripped down from his Clark Kent duds to "fly" into a woman's crotch, and Batman did some sight gags with an inflatable penis, making Ben Affleck seem like less of a crazy choice for the Dark Knight.
You will start washing your hands compulsively after handling money. It's hard to say.
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Way to play hurt, guys. We were in the safe, supervised bubble of the ballroom, with nothing to fear beyond embarrassment. Bruce lee slots, heterosexual women love skits.
Our host in spangly-pocketed jeans placed a chaste palm over his crotch and instructed, "You may not touch here, or you go to jail. There was no competition for male attention — we were all shapes, sizes and ages, and were all getting what we came for. But as soon as the tear-away pants hit the ground, revealing skimpy skivvies, the boys scamper off faster than you can say "spray tan.
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Once he dismounted, the dancer who'd been straddling the grandmotherly woman two seats to our right hugged her and said something in her ear that made her smile as she passed him a couple of bills. These authors don't find having a stranger's crotch thrust in their faces particularly arousing. Yes, the term sex worker encompasses strippers.
Again, back at the Tip Top, men and the occasional woman were planted around the stage like mushrooms in the dark, staring ahead in rapt silence at the sole dancer before them. The lap dances in the crowd involve in-your-face your actual face gyrating, during which slapping a spandex-wrapped ass is encouraged.
Here is what we learned. Another number featured dapper gangsters and gunplay. We chatted easily with strangers about which man was the best dancer, who had the best butt and our feelings on chest waxing.
Sure, we were all a little nervous when the rowdy woman on stage got hold of a cast-off belt, but the bachelorettes and grandmothers kept to their seats all evening, clapping and hooting at the appropriate moments, depositing bills in G-strings and lining up for Polaroids after the finale. But at Hunks, women in pairs and packs laughed and clapped, egging one another on.
From our seats on the side, we did, in fact, glimpse the dancers through a gap in the curtain pinned over the doorway, oiling up for the next number. Why buy a ticket to watch a bunch of men when sex is something that you can get for free at the bar next door?
It was easy to imagine them trying on costumes and goofing off, bro-ing out over which phallic objects they could work into the act. Well, sex is a seller's market for women. It was good, campy fun, but we didn't see anyone squirming in her seat with lust.
Are the goofiness, high-speed numbers and quick exits supposed to spare us the awkwardness of staring at men's bodies with the same earnest focus as the men looking at women at the Tip Top? In one routine, "firemen" waved a blanket over a woman on the floor as if putting out a fire.
Nor does jack-rabbiting simulated intercourse call to mind a satisfying sexual encounter. So is the combination of semi-nudity and high-top sneakers.