It was Sunday night at TWIST, prime gay complex in Miami beach. After ordering a caipirinha at the courtyard bar, I headed to the strippers’ shed. The place was busy. Semi-naked muscled boys in skimpy underwear mingled among punters of mixed ages. Only a handful of the customers were women. Apart from the spotlights on the podiums where the strippers danced, the room was dimly lit. On the microphone, a drag queen from Colombia described in English the sensual virtues of the go-go boys. In the shadier corners, one could spot the odd semi-naked dancer rubbing his buttocks against the crotch of some fully clothed older customer. As part of the “private dance”, it looked like the punter was allowed to stroke the boy’s muscley chest and nipples, his flat stomach, his tight belly, his strong thighs… but hands always stopped at the crotch. I never saw a punter feeling a dancer’s genitals, not even over the briefs. And the briefs never slipped down...
During a break, the Colombian drag queen made her way to the bar and stood next to me to order a bottle of water. She got talking. Apparently that night they were hosting an amateur stripper competition. Needless to say, nothing indicated in the way she addressed me that she thought of me as a potential contestant. From what I gathered, the competition was really a public audition to recruit new dancers for the venue. I asked casually if the competitors would have to get completely naked. She turned all thoughtful and weary, as though she was about to make a shameful confession. ‘Oh, no. Unfortunately, not. You can’t show cock here, sadly. We don’t have the right license. This venue doesn’t want to charge at the door. And only venues with a cover charge are allowed to show full nudity.’ Or something along the line. This explanation would have sufficed as far as I was concerned, but apparently she felt obliged to go on and on about the ins and outs of venue licensing, cock showing and male go-going in Miami. ‘I wish, I wish!’ she stressed, ‘I wish we could show cock!’ When she found out where I was from, she switched to Spanish. She told me about her experience performing in Gran Canaria, getting lost in the dunes of Maspalomas and how much she liked Serrano ham. ‘That’s the salty stuff, isn’t it? I love it!’
She returned to her hosting duties: ‘This is Eduardo, 26 years old. He arrived from Caracas just a couple of weeks ago. He likes playing football. Look at his huge strong thighs.’ On the podium, Eduardo lowered slightly the top of his red briefs, revealing his trimmed pubic hair and the top of his limp penis, which he covered up again almost immediately while teasingly shaking his hips. He dedicated a wide, frank smile to his potential dollar-bill-shoving admirers.
I hear a voice with a Cockney accent coming from inside the cubicle: "I'm
gay but I don't take it up the arse," followed by a muffled reply that I fail to decipher. The
Cockney voice again: "Come
on. I'm queer; you're queer. Get your fucking knickers off and bend over." Another
muffled reply, heavy breathing, rustling noises. Losing
his patience, the man with the Cockney accent raises his voice: "I fancy you. You fancy me, don't you? Now then... bend
over!" The panting gets louder. I
wash my hands… and leave.
I thought I was the only person sitting on the top floor of
the double-decker. But a muffled sound behind me made me wonder. It was a night
bus. I was immersed in the mysteries of the crime novel I was reading. I heard the
sound again. It was a gasp, a rustle. Like the sudden sprint of a frightened mouse across the carpet.
Distracted, I turned my head to find out indeed that I was not on my own.
There were two other passengers on the upper deck. A young woman sat on one of
the back seats with her legs spread out in the air. She was wearing leopard
print stilettos. In front of her, on his knees, a man was pulling to the side
the front of the woman’s panties, showing under her tight mini-skirt. He
was smartly dressed. He pushed his head towards her, sticking his tongue out. Neither
of them made eye contact with me but it was obvious that they were aware I was
looking. The woman gasped again arching her head backwards. When I saw the young man’s tongue reaching the
woman’s exposed vulva, I turned my head and returned to my book. What happened
next was very quick. The bell for a bus stop rang and the couple dashed past me. As they went down the stairs, the man looked
down coyly, visibly flustered. Behind
him, the woman kept her chin up. Half-glancing at me, she fixed her hair,
pushing her fingers through her big afro. Defiant.
#FreedomTo join the #PrideLDNParade at any point without having to be part of a pre-registered group @LondonLGBTPride #undemocratic
#FreedomTo be part of LGBT+ Pride celebrations which are not tightly controlled by the hierarchies of a Tory Government: @LondonLGBTPride
#FreedomTo celebrate “LGBT+ Pride” & NOT @LondonLGBTPride’s “Tory Pride” ruled by non-inclusive corporate capitalism & consumerism
#FreedomTo truly be oneself with real freedom of expression & NOT being coerced by the #PrideLDNParade stewards from @LondonLGBTPride
#FreedomTo join LGBT Pride celebrations without pandering to @LondonLGBTPride’s ill-conceived & restrictive “family-friendly” constraints
#FreedomTo be free in an LGBT Pride which is truly inclusive & truly respects all life styles & individualities - unlike @LondonLGBTPride
"Chain masturbating" (or "chain wanking") is equivalent to "chain smoking", only instead of having a fag after another, one has a wank after another (wank-orgasm-wank-orgasm-wank-orgasm-wank... until exhaustion)
(oh, those were the days)
