Night at the Bashful Weiner

I introduced you to my gay boyfriend, Poodle, back when I shared my Night at the Dusty Beaver.  Poodle is always ready to go out and enjoy fun with our close group of friends, so when he invited us out to a drag bar, how could we resist?

He had to talk the straight guys in our group into going because they were totally not digging a drag club as a site for a fun evening out.  However, Poodle lured them with the temptation that there would be lots of lesbians there.  "What straight man doesn't like lesbians????" He asked.  They really had no argument for that, so, off we went, complete with Poodle sporting his pink, feather boa for the occasion.

For the purpose of this post, I will call this drag bar The Bashful Weiner. (I'd hate to offend any of the performers or patrons with my critique.)  Having never been to a drag show before, I expected the performers to look like Bea Arthur or George Foreman in evening gowns for some reason.  I could not have been more wrong.

The first performer was wearing the equivalent of a banana peel and two Band-Aids.  He/She was toned and tight as a drum balancing effortlessly on five-inch heels.   I was shocked.  Totally shocked.  Ladies, there is absolutely no excuse for us to look like shit when a MAN can make himself into that attractive of a woman. 

I was surprised at how entertaining the show was with the different performers singing, dancing, and cracking jokes.  One performer, however, brought us to an uncomfortable place.  He/She came out onto the stage in a wheelchair.  I thought, okay, so here's a disabled drag queen.  Not expected, but hey, good for him/her.

He/She proceeded to flail around to the music then suddenly -- BAM! -- he/she was face down on the floor.  My first reaction was, "Oh shit!" I felt sure this was an unfortunate accident for the performer.  But, then he/she began to gyrate on the stage and eventually was up -- on two stocking clad, perfectly functioning legs -- dancing.  I'll be honest.  I really didn't know what to make of that.  I was shocked, dismayed, relieved, confused.... So I ordered another drink and kept watching.

Poodle didn't lie about the lesbians.  There were a shit-ton in attendance.  But, he stretched it when he intimated that a straight man would enjoy observing these ladies in this habitat.  By my estimation, all of them (except for perhaps one or two) looked either like Justin Beiber, complete with side-swooped hair and oversized trucker hat or lumberjacks on furlough with their wallets chained to their jeans for safekeeping.

As I was looking around, I caught the eye of a burly looking gal with a mullet who winked and gave me a nod.  My first reaction was, "Oh shit!" Then, I got a little insulted because I knew I could do better if that was the side my bread was buttered on. 

As the night wore on, Hubs and the other straight guy in our group had to go to the restroom.  Poodle had warned them earlier in the evening to "watch their backs" if they had to go in there because things had been known to happen.   One got up and said, "Hey, man, you need to go?"  The other quickly stood up, stretched and said, "Yeah, man.  Let's go."  This was the only time in my life I have ever seen two straight men go to the bathroom together.

They returned a few minutes later, laughing and ready for more beer.  Thankfully, there were no unusually friendly guys in the men's room.  They were laughing at the fact that there were flowers in one of the urinals. They'd never seen that at Hooters or at a ballgame.

It was quite an enlightening night.  One to check off my Bucket List -- or at least my Fuck-It List -- for sure.

Night at the Dusty Beaver

Before I begin my story, let me introduce you to my gay boyfriend, Poodle (not his real name).  He is a hoot.  Ladies, if you do not have a gay boyfriend, you are missing out.  Poodle knows the best restaurants, the best places to shop, what's hot, what's not and makes a mean sangria.  I love people who are who they are -- no pretense.  What you see is what you get.  That's my Poodle.

When Poodle learned that Hubs and I had never been to what he considered key landmarks in the big city, he quickly remedied that by planning an evening out for a group of us.  Our evening began with a late dinner at a wonderful restaurant.  From there, we went to a type of establishment I'd never visited before -- a strip club.  Not just any strip club, but a historical landmark in the city known for its "mature" performers and seedy atmosphere.  For the purpose of this post, I shall call it The Dusty Beaver.  (I'm not going to state the real name of this establishment just in case any of your grandmothers work there, bless their hearts, and my comments offend.)

Even in the wee hours of the morning, there was a line to enter The Dusty Beaver.  The place was packed.  Standing room only.  The crowd could not have been more diverse.  Young, old, gay, straight, any demographic you can imagine. Music pounded, lights pulsed.  I was taking it all in.  Then it happened....  I caught my first glimpse of a performer.  Ho.  Lee.  Shit.  There was an older lady strutting her stuff practically buck naked up on the stage.  Things only went downhill from there.  She got more naked, as did those that followed. 

Now if you are picturing an older lady who has done much to maintain her skin and physique, let me stop you right there.  That was not the case.  Time, gravity, and slowing metabolisms had not been kind to these ladies.  Some even looked like their asses and the backs of their legs had been beaten with a bag of nickels.  Yet, there they were, smiling, dancing (kind of), and giving their all to a cheering crowd. Lawd. 

An old lady came shuffling out dressed as a little girl, complete with polka dot skirt, crinoline making it poof out, and a bow in her hair.  She didn't dance so much as remain upright.  Her signature move appeared to be that of a toddler boy learning to pee in the yard.  She'd stand with her legs spread, hold her skirt up, and thrust her hips out.  Classy.  Let me just preface the following by saying that what has been seen, cannot be unseen:  She lifted her skirt, pulled her enormous granny panties to the side and illuminated her old muffin with a light.  What. The. Fuck.  I was speechless.  Frozen.  Much like a train wreck, I couldn't tear my eyes away from this unbelievably horrible sight.  Poodle was laughing his ass off at my horror.

Then, out comes the next peformer.  I shall call her Chocolate Pancake.  She took off her top and I just knew she was going to trip over those long, flat ti-taes.  (I'm certain I don't have to be proper and call them "breasts" when I saw them in a seedy strip club.)  A small busted gal myself, I was dumbstruck.  Poodle said, "She's a 36 long!"  Chocolate Pancake quickly divested herself of all clothing.  (I thought she left on some type of textured thong, but to my abject horror, that was not the case.) Then, just when I thought I could not be more shocked, it happened....  Chocolate Pancake solicited an empty beer can from the crowd, put it where the sun don't shine, gave a wiggle, then pulled it back out, smashed flat.  What. The. Fuck.  I tried to rationalize.  "Hey, maybe she's just recycling.  That's it!  She's just doing her part for the environment."  Nope.  She did it again.  Okaaaaaaaay.

Apparently the rest of our group had seen enough, too, so we extricated ourselves from the crowd and made a break for it.  On our way to the car, Hubs said that he's not sure when he'll be able to get it up again after seeing all that.  (Sounds like I'll be able to finish that book I've been reading.) My time at The Dusty Beaver now just lives in my night terrors.  But, I did learn two very important lessons:

1. Moisturize.  Moisturize.  MOISTURIZE.
2. Always wear a bra with proper support.