For an excuse to go stare at the naked dancing men I convinced myself, in
the name of journalism, I should cover the all male reviews.
These establishments are gathered near the center of Duval, corner of Petronia Street, an oasis within an oasis. O
utside one bar drag queens stand tall in massive wigs and platform shoes in which they prance and cheerfully amiably wittily harangue passersby. They are art installations on heels, creativity personified.
I was headed for the bar across the way. Five bucks to get in. I paid a bald man in a tank top and thick gold chains. On a wall was a poster, a photo of a man dancing, in profile, in black and white, with heavy shadows playing on a generous rump, and ‘Siberian Lynx’ beneath. I took a deep breath and pressed against the turnstile of Fate into a multitude of chattering drinking sweating humans. I was in a dim room filled by a stratum of smells, two bars and a stage in the back, and strobe lights clawing through the darkness, and naked men everywhere.
Dancing at the front bar, dangling from a shiny pole, was a lanky white boy with limbs like sticks, and a bandana artfully tied at the top of one slim thigh, holding his equipment in place, rather like a cowboy’s holstered gun. He looked no more than nineteen and he had a string of appreciative male patrons in his sway.
Farther inside, atop the second bar, a sultry Latin bopped. He had a complexion like coffee and wore only a cowboy hat and underwear with a red patch over the bulge, perhaps to accentuate the obvious. In a frenzy of motion he gyrated near a huddle of females in matching tee shirts, the sure sign of a bachelorette party; they ignored him.
Deep in the back, upon the stage the Siberian Lynx was pulsating, his sculpted body thrusting suggestively. He boogied and winked at his mesmerized worshipful clientele. The Lynx had dark hair, pale skin and a red bow for a mouth on an insolent yet
striking face. He had his underwear pulled down in the back, so that the elastic waistband was straining beneath the full ripe gluteus. While he danced, occasionally his hands traveled down his etched torso to check the status of the insecure underwear, lest he was asking too much from the elastic. Naturally, as a spectator, it was impossible not to hope the undies would collapse.
On my way out I watched aghast as the lanky white boy, in his bandana, had begun to massage himself against a customer’s willing thigh, meanwhile they chatted casually.
Later that same night, maybe 4am, I saw the Siberian Lynx in the back of a cab. He was kissing a person with white blond hair. I strained to see, perhaps a lucky customer? Perhaps the lanky white boy? No, it was a female, and surprisingly I recognized her, from the strip club.
In the name of journalism, I may have to investigate further.