Females show their primal instincts

by Lauren Cartwright

Watching men gyrate around a stage to pounding hip hop music wearing little more than a willie sock leaves me to wonder how exactly I got here. And then I remember ‘­’— this was all my idea.

Maybe I should start at the beginning. YES! Weekly ad-man Kevin gave me some tickets to see the American Hunks at Club Kryptonite in Burlington. I should have known I was in for an odd time when I read their tag line: ‘“Stars and Strips Forever.’”

I had four tickets. I asked seven ladies to go with me. Some laughed, others just stared at me and some were conveniently unavailable. Staff writer Amy Kingsley goes with me out of sympathy in an impulsive decision made an hour before the show, which I’m sure she regrets soon after we walk into the club.

I’ve never been to a male revue, but here’s what I’ve heard: the reason women get so angry when men go to strip clubs is because they know what goes on at male revues. Let me tell you men ‘– you should be worried about your women.

The women enjoying the male revue tonight at Kryptonite are dirty ‘– like Christina Aguilera’s ‘“Dirrty’” with a capital ‘“d’” and a couple of ‘“r’s.’” I’d have to guess the crowd is equally split between early twenty-something’s and the 35 and above crowd. As some of these older broads get air humped by the dancers, I can’t help but think, ‘“That’s somebody’s mother ‘— and possibly grandmother.’”

I meet a mother/daughter duo enjoying the show. The daughter scolding, ‘“Mom, you can’t say that out loud,’” is what brings my attention to them. The blond, fit fortysomething tells me that it was her daughter who got her to the show.

‘“I’m glad I came,’” and with a laugh she adds, ‘“You don’t see things like this everyday.’”

I have a feeling I’ll never see anything like this ever again. I can’t believe this is happening in public.

I’m not usually into the muscle-heads, but the American Hunks are undeniably fine specimens of the brawnier sex. Each dancer has a theme: a cop, a cowboy, a saucy Puerto Rican and finally a James Bond-type complete with white dress shirt, and the quintessential black breakaway tuxedo pants. Because you never know when you’re going to need to bust out of your pants.

The cop is in the middle of his performance when we walk into the tiki-themed Kryptonite. He ‘arrests’ one of the ladies in the audience whose hairstyle is almost as old as the AC/DC song blaring through the speakers. He bends her over a chair and proceeds to frisk her. His dress quickly goes from fully clothed cop to shirtless cop to chaps and a g-string cop.

Next up is the cowboy ‘— who in my opinion looks more like a rancher. He wears a camouflaged hat, long tan field coat and a G-string. I feel certain this rancher is wearing boots but I don’t get a look past his knees because of the hysterical females between him and me. I haven’t seen Brokeback Mountain but I have an inkling if the cowboys in the film dressed like this then it would have a much larger appeal.

The rancher dances to Lone Star’s ‘“Amazed,’” which incidentally was the first dance at a friend’s wedding reception. That song will never be the same for me after watching the grinding rancher. During this act, I receive some ‘looks’ from two ladies ‘­’— who were definately 50 plus. I feel they maybe have something to hide ‘— and decide to keep an eye on them. Another older gal at the bar tells me that her husband of 26 years told her he didn’t care who she brought home and that he’d cook them all breakfast. Nice.

The Latino lover is onstage next and claims to have once been a backup dancer for Usher. I’m guessing he means the entertainer, not the guy who takes your money at church. He grooved around the stage oiled up like a Miami sunbather to every suggestive song lyric there is. Ginuwine sings, ‘“If you’re horny, lets do it’…’” Hip thrusts to the right. ‘“Ride it, my pony…’” Then comes his signature move ‘— the ab ripple. ‘“My saddle’s waitin”…’” His pop and lock routine has obviously been perfected from many hours in front of the mirror, and has the desired effect on the crowd.

During Bond-boy’s set, I figure out why the 50 year olds are giving me ‘the look.’ One of the grannies is up on stage getting a lap dance from the super spy and seems to be enjoying it. I don’t think she’s drinking either.

Maybe it’s the years of oppression from males, or maybe women are hornier than they are given credit for, but some of these broads are scaring me. I can image they were scaring the dancers too. Amy says at one point, ‘“I think they’d rip him apart.’” The MC keeps reminding the audience to stay back from the stage and, oh yeah, private lap dances are $20.

Not a frequenter to female strip clubs, I’ve been told there is a strict ‘no touching’ rule with the dancers. The Hunks apparently aren’t aware of this rule.

The experience is not bad overall, but I do have more fun watching the crowd than the dancers. I don’t let out a ‘“Whooooo Hoooooo,’” but I do break out into hysterical laughter over the frenzied females around me.

My favorite part of the evening has to be meeting Shanna, an EMT from Winston- Salem. She first catches my attention when she receives a lap dance from one of the Hunks. He took her floor-length white fur coat and put it around his shoulders. Later at the bar, I ask Shanna about her look, which is complete with Sonny Bono-esque furry white knee-high boots and a silver sequin crop-top. Shanna answers she is the ‘“Abominable Hoe-man.’”

I think she defiantly isn’t the only hoe-man here tonight as a lean muscle-man walks by me in leather chaps.

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