PINK, PLASTIC PENISES.
That’s what’s bouncing around like two alien antennas on top of my cousin Emily’s head. Two pink, rubbery penises attached to a cheap headband.
I don’t know how people celebrate bachelorette parties in other parts of the world, but in the Northeast they dress the bride-to-be in sashes and tiaras, force them to wear pink penis paraphernalia, and sacrifice them to male exotic dancers. Emily doesn’t seem to mind, though. She’s sipping champagne happily in the back of an Escalade stretch limo as we drive through New York City.
“Alana,” Jill, Emily’s maid of honor, calls my name. Her personality is as fiery as her red hair. “We were taking bets as to whether you were going to come or not.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I slingshot back.
“I don’t know?” She muses, holding up her hands like she’s balancing a pair of scales. “Cut short a year-long trip to Europe, or stay and hang out with all those hotties on the French Riviera?”
“Sun and Speedos get old after awhile.” I sigh.
“Well, maybe some American Speedos will revive your interest?” Jill prods.
“Doubtful.” I scrunch my nose.
“Is the straight-laced Alana Remington too prim and proper for a male strip show?” Jill just won’t let up.
“She’s only prim and proper on the outside.” Emily jumps in, defending me.
Thanks, Em, but I can take care of myself.
“Why would you say that? I’m here, aren’t I?” I argue. “I’m just not partial to tiny male underwear. And I think the politically correct term is Male Revue.”
“Whatever.” Jill laughs at me. “This is the perfect night to let your hair down and get a little action between your legs.”
“Jill!” Emily chastises. “They don’t sleep with you.”
“I’m sure if you paid them enough they would.” Jill takes a hefty sip of champagne. Someone clearly has high hopes for tonight.
“You’re so crude,” Emily admonishes.
“I’m just real. And I’m pretty sure all they’d have to do is take one look at Alana’s blonde hair, brown eyes, and long-ass legs, and they’d pay to sleep with her.”
“Well, just don’t let my father find out if that happens,” I interject dryly. “I don’t think he’d respond well to me pimping myself out.”
“I have a feeling you don’t need monetary transactions for sex.” Jill helps herself to another glass of champagne as we haul down 5th Avenue.
I glance at Emily, and she gives me a sympathetic look.
“Where did you tell him we were going tonight anyway?” Emily giggles, her bright blue eyes sparkling and long, dark hair pouring over her shoulders. She’s five foot two and a hundred pounds soaking wet, but she has the persona of a world-renowned supermodel—beautiful, confident, sexy, fun. She leaves a mark wherever she goes.
“I told him we were having an early dinner, then seeing a Broadway show.” I almost choked on my granola when he asked me which one. Most of the time, my father barely knows I’m alive, but of course, the one time I’m not prepared with a cover story, he catches me.
I shift around in the cream leather seat, trying to pull down the clingy hem of my gold-pleated, tube dress without much success. If I’m not careful I’m going to end up giving everyone in the limo a pre-show.
“So, a male strip club would have been a no-go with him, huh?” Jill asks, sarcasm clear as a bell in her tone. She’s never really liked me. I think it’s because she sees me as competition for Emily’s attention, but I’ve never been able to confirm that.
“Like I need to answer that.” I grimace. I’ve known Jill most of my life. She’s fully aware of my family situation. My father is a strict, detached man who has stern expectations of his daughter, and demands an impeccable social image. Me, going to a male strip club? No-go is a drastic understatement, and she knows it.
“My uncle has very firm views about how his daughter should act.” Emily makes no qualms about hiding her annoyance. “What she should wear, whom she should date, how she should breathe. He’s colder than a damn piece of ice. I swear, I don’t know how our fathers share the same DNA.”
Both of our fathers are prestigious figures in the law community. Mine is a superior court judge in the state of New Jersey, while Emily’s is a big shot defense attorney in New York City. They both have a reputation to uphold, but my Uncle John is very personable and laid-back. He and Emily have a great relationship. My father is the exact opposite—stringent, disconnected, and completely career driven. I don’t even think he has emotions. And we have no relationship.
“So, no little lost strippers following you home, then?” Jill continues to niggle.
“Jill.” I roll my eyes, wishing I could slap her. That would be so inappropriate though, and I don’t want to put a damper on Emily’s night. I’ll bite my tongue. I’m used to it. Hell, I’m an expert at it. I have a doctorate in keeping my trap shut.
“Not unless they have a seven-figure paycheck and Republicans as parents,” Emily adds wryly.
Everyone in the limo looks pointedly at me, and I’m not exactly sure what they’re thinking. It’s probably a toss-up. They either feel incredibly sorry for me, or think I’m some tight ass who’s going to ruin all the fun. If they take one look at my dress, they should know it’s not the latter.
As we drive through Times Square, the lights on the billboards flash and droves of people litter the streets. The city is always so alive; bustling, moving, churning. I love it here. And I’ll love it even more when I live here. I start law school in three months, and I can’t fucking wait.
It’s nearly eight o’clock when the limo pulls up to Culture, the only all-male ladies’ club in the world. At least, that’s what the website boasts. Already, the line is around the corner with eager women waiting to get in. All six of us step out of the limo into the warm, New York air. Along with Emily, Jill, and me, there’s Beth and Liz, the groom’s two sisters, and one of Emily’s roommates from college, Jen.
The smell of hotdogs and pretzels drift in the breeze from the street vendors as we make our way up the sidewalk. There’s a secondary entrance adorned with a street sign with several shirtless men that reads ‘Male Revue’, and when I look closer at it I catch some fine print scribbled on the bottom that reads ‘lip smackin’ dick’.
Oh, man, maybe I am too straight-laced for this.
Emily nudges me as we wait in line for the doors to open. “Sorry about Jill,” she whispers.
“Why are you apologizing? She’s right.” I cross my arms. “I do need some action between my legs. I just have to build up enough nerve to actually let someone in.”
“That’s not the only place you need to let someone in.”
I bristle. “Em, I don’t want to dwell on my past. At least not tonight, okay?” I hiss.
“Okay,” she concedes, the penises bobbling on her head. Dear Lord.
“Are you going to wear those things all night?” I roll my eyes.
“No, I’m just going to wait until Jill is drunk enough not to notice I took them off.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be wearing them for too long then.” I smirk. Jill is a freaking lush.
Emily nods zealously in agreement. I think she likes the shock value of her headband a little too much.
It’s early May, so the temperature in the city is comfortable. No one needs a jacket or scarf or long pants, and I think even underwear is optional, depending on your personality.
As the line behind us grows rapidly, the bouncer finally gives the okay to go inside. I bounce in my sky-high stilettos, trying to muster enough nerve to actually walk through the door. I’m a little out of my element here. Hell, a lot out of my element. We file in one behind the other, all walking carefully down the dark stairwell in our designer heels as we make our way into the club’s private room.
The space is dark but not cold. Black tufted leather couches and round, glass coffee tables are spread out in front of a small stage that sits maybe a foot off the ground. Very intimate, very close, and very personal.
We all sit down on an L-shaped sofa to the right of the stage, and a few moments later someone is popping open a bottle of champagne and handing out plastic cups with pink bubbly liquid in it. I’m suddenly all nerves as the realization of what’s about to happen kicks in. I gulp down the champagne. I prematurely decide that I don’t think I’m going to like this one bit. I glance around anxiously at all the excited women in the room. A few of them have sashes or a tiara that reads ‘bachelorette’ or ‘birthday girl.’ Emily fits right in with her penis paraphernalia headband. She seems totally relaxed. I think I’d be hyperventilating if I knew some guy was going to be grinding all over me in a few minutes.
I take another large sip of champagne as I watch the bartenders mix drinks behind the bar, listen to the muted conversations of the girls around me, and feel the temperature rise rapidly as the room fills to capacity.
What the fuck am I doing?
Just before I can get up to get some air, a smooth male voice washes over the crowd. “Ladies, ladies, ladies,” the emcee announces. Shit. The man is short, with caramel-colored skin and big green eyes. He’s also very handsome, and comes off as very charismatic. He introduces himself as Hugo, walking back and forth across the stage like he owns the damn thing.
Hugo tells a few dirty jokes to warm up the crowd. All the woman laugh, some even going so far as to fire comments back, fueling his raunchy lip service. “Okay, my fine females, this is what’s going to happen,” he discloses with a tantalizing edge to his tone. “There will be a group performance and then private dances, and then one-on-one time, where,” he smiles wickedly, “you get to mingle with all the fellas.” He lets the last part of his sentence linger, teasing the shit out of the room of eager women. I really think I need a fucking cigarette and a line of shots before this shit goes down.
Hugo tosses the mic to someone on the side of the stage then disappears behind a door to the left that’s barely noticeable. It’s been painted black to blend in with the wall. The DJ pumps a hard-core club mix of Rihanna’s “Rude Boy,” while smoke blows over us from different corners of the room, which is cold and smells like sour chemicals. Then, with no warning, that little black door swings open and four men with no shirts, ripped bodies, and black tuxedo pants file out one by one bumping their hips to the music. The room goes absolutely berserk. Women start screaming, bouncing up and down, and waving dollar bills over their heads as the four guys bump and grind and hump around the stage in a sexed-up routine. They’re all hot, I’ll admit, but I can’t help but wonder how anyone can do this. Don’t they feel like a slab of raw meat?
I down more champagne as Emily claps and laughs, rolling right along with the high energy of the show.
When the Chippendales’ demonstration is done, the dancers disappear through the camouflaged door, leaving the crowd hot and bothered and apparently ready for more. The lady sitting in front of us is actually panting. Really?
I glance at Emily as Hugo reappears. She’s really getting into this, which could be dangerous. Emily likes to have fun. Too much fun sometimes. And if it wasn’t for her, that word wouldn’t even exist in my world. She’s gotten us in more trouble than I like to recount. But despite her shenanigans, the experience was always worth it. Growing up, she added a balance to my life I was in desperate need of. She taught me how to blow off steam, and search for an outlet when dealing with my overbearing father. I don’t know where I’d be without her. If I had to guess, probably a stressed-out mess.
Hugo calls the first bachelorette onto the stage. Lila, I think he said her name was. She’s a cute, young girl, who’s
almost innocent looking. She’s wearing a sparkly tiara and a pink sash that broadcasts ‘bachelorette’. Her fake blonde hair is loose with curls, and she’s wearing a conservative, white, button-up shirt with light blue jeans. Not very club couture, but whatever. Her entire party is called up on stage, and is instructed by Hugo to decorate her body with dollar bills. The group sticks money wherever they can—in her pants pockets, between the buttons of her shirt, in her collar, and under her sash. She looks like a walking ATM by the time they’re done with her. Then Lila is urged to sit down on a lone folding chair on stage. I actually hold my breath.
The DJ hits the music again, and a fast version of Sean Paul’s Temperature pumps through the speakers as a guy dressed in a cop’s uniform explodes onto the stage, all high energy and sexual persona, popping his body as he jumps right in front of Lila. He looks legit in his navy blue uniform, aviator sunglasses, and officer’s cap. Sergeant Striptease wastes no time working it, getting right in Lila’s face, bumping his junk to the rhythm of the music.
I can’t believe I’m watching this, I think to myself, wide-eyed, as I down more and more champagne.
He savagely rips off his shirt displaying his defined chest and six-pack abs, then he straddles Lila with his face toward the crowd. Taking her hands, he runs them down his glistening pecs, over his rippling stomach, and then his chiseled hips.
I’m not really sure what’s more shocking, the stage show or the reaction it’s getting. Women are bouncing exuberantly in the leather seats, shrieking and clapping almost like a bomb went off. Is this seriously my life right now?
Sergeant Striptease continues, standing Lila up, and proceeds to rub himself all over her. Moving up and down against her body, he grabs the dollar bills out of her shirt with his teeth. Lila laughs nervously as she holds on to him by his very nice, very broad shoulders. Very nice shoulders. Then he does something that takes everyone—especially Lila—by surprise. He grabs her waist and flips her upside down, her crotch ending up right in his face. He slashes his tongue between her legs, reducing most of the women in the room into screaming spectators.
The sounds are bloodcurdling. Jesus.
He’s raunchy as hell.
Sergeant Striptease then puts Lila down and whispers something in her ear. She nods at him with a smile, her eyes wide and alight. He sits her back down in the chair and proceeds to take off the rest of his clothes, which is actually just a quick tug of his pants. All he has on underneath is a black G-string with, dear Lord, tassels covering his penis. Where do you even find a getup like that? He does one more bump and grind on Lila, practically naked, and then the show is over. Just like that.
Emily looks over at me, her eyebrows lifted high.
“Yeah, girl, that’s all you,” I yell over the music, and she laughs.
I wonder how much laughing she’s going to do when it’s her on that stage? I suddenly can’t wait to see this.
Hugo reappears, announcing the next girl, Holly, and she looks absolutely petrified. She, too, has blonde hair, but I think it’s natural. No dark roots. She’s wearing a white eyelet dress and fresh-faced makeup. She looks almost virginal, and I feel sorry for her already.
Holly sits in the folding chair, wound tighter than a spring, littered with dollar bills all over her body. I couldn’t do it. I could never sit up there and have some guy I don’t know hump all over me. It would just feel . . . wrong. For me, anyway.
I admire the other women in the room who are raring to go. Maybe I am a fucking prude?
The lights dim as Holly sits alone on the stage, but no one comes out of the camouflaged door. There’s low, haunting music playing and smoke curling up from the floor. Then I notice Holly’s face turn pale. Everyone turns around to see what she’s looking at. And there, sauntering toward the stage, is a guy dressed in black leather pants and a matching mask covering his whole head, wielding a whip in his right hand.
Holy BDSM.
“Ladies, The Dominator,” Hugo announces darkly and Holly absolutely shits. I can’t say I blame her. I’m overcome with the need to run up there and rescue her.
Once The Dominator makes it onto the stage, he starts moving slow and seductively all around Holly, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back when he finally decides to straddle her, mask on and all.
My mind goes numb as I watch. It feels like an out-of-body experience; the display is so far out of my sexual scope of understanding.
Continuing with his routine, The Dominator then pulls Holly to her feet, bends her over, and starts smacking her ass. Hard. If you listen close enough you can almost hear the contact of his palm against her dress. After which, he proceeds to mercilessly hump her from behind, and that is when I’ve had enough, choosing to look away.
I may be scarred for life.
Once he’s finally finished, he sits her back down in the chair.
Holly is so starry-eyed, it looks like she’s higher than a kite.
The Dominator energetically rips off his mask, exposing his face and once again starts with the intense hip bumping, his crotch square and center, pounding smack dab in front of her face. An inch closer and he may just knock her out with his pelvis. I cover my mouth as I laugh, the effects of champagne kicking into high gear.
Mr. Dominator isn’t bad looking with his bald head, big, bright eyes, and really nice smile. Like, really nice. It’s endearing, which is weird considering the part he chooses to play. He then goes on to do something that actually impresses me. Somehow, he gets his feet over her head, planting them against the back wall of the stage, his ass facing the crowd, and humps Holly upside down. My neck almost breaks as I try to cock my head a little too far. For a guy who’s tall, bulky, and muscled, he’s limber as all hell, I’ll give him that.
“Alana, don’t hurt yourself.” Emily nudges me.
“I’m trying not to.” I laugh freely. This is just all too ridiculous for me. Where’s the champagne?
When The Dominator is finally done, he kicks himself down and pulls Holly to her feet. The man proceeds to pick out all the dollar bills with his teeth, and then plants a huge, wet kiss on her cheek. Holly was a damn good sport. I would have bolted the moment I saw him walking my way. You know, if you could actually pay me enough to get up on that stage in the first place.
Now, it’s Emily’s turn.
“Okay, ladies,” the charming Hugo voices. “You’re in for a real treat,” he announces vivaciously as Jill, Beth, Liz, Jen, and I dress Emily in dollar bills. She’s by far the sexiest, and most trendily dressed girl in the room. Emily is fitted in a tight black bodysuit that’s short sleeved and high collared, paired with a flared mini skirt and black stockings that give the illusion of thigh highs. The outfit is awesome and one hundred percent hooch couture. With her tiny little frame, she rocks the ensemble like a pro.
By the time we’re done with her, she looks like a scarecrow stuffed with green straw. Even her black bootie high heels have Washingtons sticking out of them.
“Next up is one of our premier dancers. So, get ready, set, wet for Jack the Stripper!” Hugo proclaims, hopping off the stage.
The beginning beats of Ginuwine’s “Pony” blasts through the speakers as a shirtless guy with a cowboy hat and eye mask grooves his way out of the black door. Now, him I could be into. He’s tall, lean, and totally toned, with sun-kissed skin and one hot looking mouth. Yum. Emily lucked out with this one.
I watch entranced as the man more tempting than a deadly sin dances to the stage in a pair of ripped, loose-fitting, blue jeans and the elastic of his underwear peeking teasingly out from under the waist of his pants. As soon as Emily sees him, a big smile spreads across her face, and I breathe a sigh of relief. She’s into him. And seriously, who wouldn’t be? He oozes sexuality and temptation. I honestly didn’t know men like him existed. But here he is, right before my very eyes. A wet dream waiting to happen.
The melody changes to a house rendition of “As Long As You Love Me” and Jack the Stripper moves seductively to the beat of the music, grinding sensually up against Emily, his fluid body undulating all over her. I’ll admit, I’ve never equated Justin Bieber to stripper music, but this guy makes it work. I sip my champagne slowly as I spy all his enticing hip movements. And, damn, can this guy ever move. My mouth becomes as dry as a desert just watching this.
The entire room responds to him. Pleasured screams and erotic moans are echoing from every which way as he works Emily over on stage. No wonder Hugo called him premier. It’s as if he knows exactly what a woman wants and exactly how to give it to her. He’s already broken down the entire room with just his confidence and sexuality. That’s damn impressive.
In the middle of his dance, with his hat and eye mask still on, he lifts Emily’s chair—with her still in it, by the way—and flips her up and around, inducing screams and shouts from the audience. A big, triumphant smile is plastered to his face as he sets her back down and begins to unbutton his pants, teasing her—and us—with glimpses of his ass. Right before he drops his jeans, he rips off his hat and flings it into the crowd revealing thick, wavy brown hair that’s short on the sides and much longer on top. His bangs spilling over his forehead hipster-style. So fucking hot.
Holy shit, did I really just think that? I swallow hard. Attraction to a man is hard for me to come by, but this guy has an air. An undeniable pull, like his aura is calling solely to me. Which is preposterous since every single woman in the room is disintegrating right at his feet.
Jack kneels in front of Emily, his side profile only visible. When he whispers something into her ear, she glances at him oddly then tentatively slides two fingers under his eye mask. When she rips it off she immediately turns white.
I can’t really see his face from my angle, but whomever he is, he spooked her. They both seem to freeze in place for a fraction of a second, his back muscles tensing, the ornate tattoo on his right bicep rippling. What the flying fuck is going on? Emily nods her head sternly, as if encouraging him on. The man stands up, slowly faces the crowd, and then proceeds to take off his pants, flashing his tassled G-string and all. That’s when my heart drops dead in my chest. It’s cardiac arrest right here on the spot.
I glance at Emily who’s staring straight at me, a myriad of emotions coloring her face, because we both just witnessed my fucking past strip to life.