We didn’t exchange names, only cash and compliments. He smelled like cigarettes and spicy cologne. What he lacked in natural rhythm, he made up for with a body fit for Playgirl.
I awkwardly stroked the clean-shaven thigh of my nameless, half-naked construction worker, not entirely sure if this is how one behaves at a male strip club. And as he (illegally) felt me up to late ‘90s R&B playing overhead, I thought to myself, “Magic Mike didn’t prepare me for this.”
A drama-cum-comedy-cum-night-at-Chippendales, Magic Mike is based on Channing Tatum’s brief stripping career in Tampa, Florida. Marketed as the perfect girl’s night out for women of all ages, Magic Mike made upwards of $39 million on its opening weekend, prompting debate amongst film critics and feminists alike.
Matthew McConaughey’s “Can you touch this?” scene in which he teaches the house rules to an audience of horndog housewives was surprisingly, and embarrassingly, titillating. Apparently, aging, spray-tanned Texans in leather pants are men I enjoy. The movie’s soundtrack was spot-on, the characters believable, the plot predictable, but still interesting.
So after thoroughly enjoying a film exploding with penis pumps, pelvic thrusts, abs, and Fourth of July man-thongs, all within the comfort of my neighbourhood movie theatre, I needed to experience the real deal.
The problem is, male revues like Magic Mike’s Club Xquisite and Chippendales are hard to come by, even in Toronto, my home base for the summer.
Both Ottawa and Toronto have healthy burlesque and strip club scenes, but they are largely female and geared towards a heterosexual male audience. While male revue troops perform at clubs and events – even make house calls – permanent male strip clubs that cater to women are a rarity.
The outer reaches of the GTA are where one can find the likes of The Foxxxes Den (Etobicoke) and Stallions (Mississauga), dingy clubs that provide bottle service, limo service, naked men for stagettes, and 19th birthday parties.
In downtown Toronto however, the gay entertainment scene dominates male strip clubs. Instead of marketing directly to women, female attendance is either restricted or outright prohibited. While clearly discriminatory, there is some logic behind it. Flash, located in the gay village, is also a members-only sex club. I can understand why my vagina and I are unwelcome.
Remington’s Men of Steel however, allows ladies in after 9 pm, and 8pm on Fridays and Saturdays. Thursday is Retro Night. Naked men and 80s pop! How could I resist?
Armed with a little wad of cash and my amigo Bob, I ventured to Toronto’s most iconic male strip joint, knowing not what to expect, except a lot of penis.
The club is ambient with lighting in all the colours of the pride flag, The stage is in the center of the room, adorned with a single pole and a wall of mirrors.
As Bob and I grab a seat by the bar, Scorpio is called to the stage. He wears white Calvin Klein briefs and looks like the Italian version of Snoop Dogg with a twist of Kevin Richardson of the Backstreet Boys. He shimmies out of his baggy jeans, and proceeds to masturbate, gazing into the crowd and occasionally watching himself in the mirror.
The performers gauge audience reaction. Scorpio isn’t feeling the love, so he doesn’t perform pole tricks, which take a lot of energy.
The crowd at this point is mainly a mixture of 20-something and middle-aged gay men. They sit in either in small groups or alone. But as the night goes on women trickle in.
At the stroke of 1 a.m., like disheveled Cinderella an hour late, a group of young women roll in, mouths agape at the sight of naked penis and shirtless men. They are a tsunami of estrogen and girly screeches. They wear Daisy Dukes and cowboy boots. Some of the male patrons are already annoyed.
Within ten minutes of their arrival, one of the women jumps on stage in the middle of a performance and spins around the pole as her friends cheer.
“Oh my God, is this girl for real right now?” one man mutters.
The other strippers chuckle and shake their heads. The performer, in an attempt to salvage his routine, picks up the woman and pounds her with pelvic thrusts. Security arrives. Ironically, the bouncer is smaller than every dancer in the club.
This is why many gay strip clubs ban women. But while these women were an utter embarrassment to my gender, there were some badass ladies as well.
Two women in their twenties sit in perv row, right by the stage. Dressed and made up to perfection, they command attention. Madonna, ACDC, Cindy Lauper play overhead as the strippers twirl and gyrate. These women watch with pleasure and fascination.
A stripper dunks his penis into one of their beers, and while the whole club applauds, she gulps down the rest of her drink.
The perv row women laugh, sing and dance in their seats to every song, and the performers crave their approval. They check their cellphones as a Russian blondie circles his hips half-heartedly to Eurhythmics, so he ups the ante by revealing a massive erection sustained by a cock ring.
Rico takes to the stage. He’s a short man with Jersey Shore biceps. His hulking body sways in a sensual, feminine way that is both sexy and comical. Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me is my jam, and as I groove along with the song, Rico yells to Bob and I, “On or off?”
“Off!!” we yell, and Rico yanks off his Ed Hardy briefs to reveal a very impressive Johnson.
Performers come up to my table, starting off with a little conversation, then a sales pitch.
Strippers make money from private dances, not from being on stage. Most of them ignored me for quite some time. They tend to leave women alone because, as one performer complained, “Only two per cent of the women actually pay. They don’t want to drink that much and don’t want the private dances.”
Happily, I’m still coaxed with, “Hey sweetheart, want to check out the back room?”, “Hey girl, how about a private dance?” and the ever charming “Wanna get naked?” It’s clearly my first time and every dancer wants to pop my lap dance cherry. Serendipitously the DJ plays Madonna’s Like A Virgin.
One man is able to convince me. The most attractive performer in the club, he looks like Justin Trudeau in a construction worker costume. Without any preamble he flashes a mischievous smile and asks “Want to head to the back room for a dance?”
Why not?
I’m whisked away to the back room of Remington’s, private booths that are closed off by curtains. As I receive my lap dance, a woman in the booth behind me laments, “I’m old enough to be your mother!” Gross.
Frankly, the entire experience is gross. It’s supposed to be. As my mom’s amiga warned me, “The only way to be classy at the peelers is to not be at the peelers.”
Pleasure is the ultimate goal of the night, and it’s an awesome feeling. Watching naked men is fun. Being a little embarrassed is fun.
People who liked Magic Mike are not necessarily going to love the nitty gritty, non-Hollywood reality of a male strip club. Be prepared to see dozens of penises in a single night. Know that performers will make eye contact while touching themselves. One can’t be afraid to talk with half-naked men.
For those ready for this sexual adventure, remember to bring lots of five-dollar bills, and don’t jump on stage during a routine.
