And she smelled like cotton candy. Is that hot for straight guys?
Anyway, nobody was more surprised than I was when, after a few drinks out on Park Ave with the Frat Pack, it was announced that the next stop was Bouzouki II. "The Deuce."
Do this when you say "the deuce"
Bouzouki II, née "The Grind," is located at the northernmost point of downtown Detroit's final frontier, Capitol Park. It's really just like a little brick box, across from the downtown synagogue and that weird speakeasy place that is open once a week but nobody I know has visited. It's a total dive, at least as far as strip joints go. It's practically an ultra-lounge compared to regular dive bars like The Well, but it definitely lacks some of the slickness of the clubs I visited on my bachelor party sojourns.
That is potentially a poor word choice.
All I can say is that it was awesome. It was a Thursday night, and we pretty much had the place to ourselves. There is just a tiny two-pole stage in the middle of the bar, so you are never far from the action. The music was typically bad, but it added to the charm. The dancers were way more attractive than I thought they would be. Someone bought shots. There is something about having a place all to yourself that is somewhat empowering. Even though there were only about ten customers there, the energy level was high.
The dancers were great - have you ever seen those girls work a pole? It's unbelievable. They were incredibly fit, and I was continually amazed at their acrobatics. It was like that Wonder Woman drag show kind of showbiz amazement. I really enjoyed watching them.
We got to meet all of the performers which is, of course, always a thrill. Cinnamon spent a lot of time at our table. She was an interesting young lady, in the way that people trying to act sophisticated when they are not is interesting. I had a whole Pygmalian fantasy about her while we were chatting - I could make her a stripper superstar! My favorite part of that conversation was when she started talking about how hot it was in there, and how thirsty she was, and everyone at our table just kind of looked away in awkward silence. Sorry sunshine!
The craziest thing, though, was when the bartender, who looked exactly like Hatchet-face from the John Waters film "Crybaby" ...
... came over with a beer bottle between her jugs (and they were jugs) and forced my friend to drink from it. I don't know if that was supposed to be some kind of mother's milk thing or what, but it mostly came across as strangely fellatic. Which, you know, feels weird with naked boobs around.
Well, the night ended too soon after one last Cintron energy drink-based cocktail (that stuff is insane) and last call for private dances. As I wandered out, I thought about how this would be such a great little place to hang out all the time - become a regular, schedule business meetings there, impress my friends. The Guerrilla Queer Bar could take it over for a night, and instead of guerrillas they would be cunt-quistadors.
But then I thought about the price of stripper bar drinks, and the irritation of the girls when they discovered I just wanted to watch them dance around a little bit, and I decided that maybe this just needs to be a special gay treat, an occasional indulgence when I'm "out with the guys."
Besides, I'm never going to change our gay world hanging out in a titty bar. Talk about a gay neutral zone. I gotta remember to keep this straight: I'm living in the D, not living in the V.