The Whelk – John Leavitt

August 12, 2009

Suckin’ To Hard On Your Lollipop

Filed under: Words — John Leavitt @ 11:16 pm

Strip club story time.

It was a few summers ago. I was Montreal with my BF and things were not going well. Things were going pretty fucking awful actually, which was why I was wandering the streets mid-day in the middle of a god damned heat wave thinking that This Was It and It Was Over. My french is terrible, I have no idea where I am, my legs ache from walking, and it’s like a billion fucking degrees out and I’m drenched in sweat. I need to cool down. I need to think. I need a drink.

I scanned the block for a place to sit down and really simmer in my misery when I saw that the large gay strip club was open. I walk in.

In order to understand the profoundly affecting mises en scène you have to understand that this is a pretty famous place. It’s big and shiny and glossy. The inside is like a red-velvet cave with tasteful up-lighting. The bar is stylishly designed, the stage is big and the bartenders are wearing what amounts to formal skin-tight swimwear.

All very flashy and gay and fabulous, except it’s the middle of the fucking day and I’m the only one there. The place can comfortably hold hundreds and I’m literally the only customer. The music isn’t even on. The A/C is blasting and the barmen look cold and uncomfortable in their tights. Their pneumatic, plastic-molded injection bodies make me sit up straighter. I am suddenly very aware of my gut and I feel like the fattest person in existence and start to if I smell or look as crazy as I feel. Crazyface aside, I felt like the naked one. I ordered a beer and tried my best not to think about anything.

Just then some incomprehensible French blasts out of the speakers announcing some new dancer named Jaque of Jami or something. Out comes an insanely muscled Latino boy in thug drag. He drops pants but doesn’t dance, he just kinda..shuffles around, pants around his ankles. His dick half-heartly swinging around. It’s not even a semblance of a dance or performance or anything. It’s embarrassing.

Then the kicker. The DJ remembers that dancers need music and cues up a song at full volume.

It’s David Bowie’s “The Man Who Sold The World.”

I don’t even remember if I saw another act or had another beer or what.

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