I had talked to Donnan from Oakland Airport on Friday afternoon. His cousins had received free tickets to a show at the Luxor later in the evening and he asked if I wanted to go. I said sure – I was excited about seeing Donnan twice in one week and he could have bought me tickets to a George W. Bush Fan Club meeting and I would have gone. So he bought two tix so that we could join them.
My noneventful flight landed and I rushed to the hotel and met up with Donnan for a romantic dinner and then the show. I met members of his amazing and friendly family and we headed into the wolf’s den with his cousin Johan and his girlfriend Dawn. We took our seats as my head buzzed a bit from the bottle of champagne from dinner.
The house lights went down and we observed a show comprised of nine or so dancers who ended every production number by ripping off their costume tops and dancing topless for the hooting and hollering audience.
Don’t get me wrong – I think women’s breasts are beautiful and I have admired them my entire life. It was just that the show prompted my memories of many past trips to Vegas — most of which included some payment on my part to see, touch, feel and/or observe the female mammary glands.
Many of my guy friends are straight, so I’ve been privy to at least a half dozen bachelor parties in the City of Sin. Long before coming out of the closet five years ago, my “buddies” treated me to a lap dance at Crazyhorse II. As the poor stripper did everything in her power to get me aroused she stopped mid-lap dance and just looked at me with a questioning look in her eyes.
“Are you gay?” she asked.
I said yes. Brandy (or whatever her name was) was the first person to whom I ever admitted being queer. She looked relieved as she continued gyrating in my lap. I made sure none of my friends had witnessed the exchange.
The week before I actually came out to everyone I knew (and then some), I was at a friend’s bachelor party once again in Vegas. As best man at my college roomate’s upcoming Greek wedding I was partially in charge of the entertainment at his bachelor festivities. Several weeks before the wedding, we took the groom to Vegas for revelry beyond description. Part of the festivities included private strippers in a hotel suite for the entire gang. As I made out a fairly large check to one of our friends who had organized the show, I swore to myself that I would never pay to see women’s bare titties again. Never had I paid so much for something with so little return.
I came out days later to everyone for many reasons, but actually paying for something from which I got NO enjoyment was a catalyst to live the truth. It was time to live my life as a gay man. Never again would I be dragged to another strip club to pay $60 for fake tits in my face.
So, here I was a gay man this weekend, with my gay boyfriend, watching drag queen-esque topless women cavorting across a glittered stage. Then I remembered that it was okay – I hadn’t paid for titties this time. My boyfriend had purchased them (the tickets – NOT their tits). And I lived up to my own promise of never paying for female strippers again.
So I sat back, smiled and enjoyed the show. I did not see another bare stripper tit the rest of the weekend.