I was amused by the gum in Italy, which strangely reminded me of home Posted by Hello

Write With Blood Posted by Hello
So not a problem today to take the advice set out in Chapter 7 (Reading and Writing) of Thus Spake Zarathustra. Today is one of those days where if you want to talk to me at all, really, you best first slip that steak au poivre, bottle of good red wine (cote du rhone), and the tasty Paris Brest (from Payard no less) laced with darvoset under the door first. Once I am unconscious, you can say whatever you like to me and then run before I regain consciousness. Other than that, you better have a pretty good relationship with G-d because you are going to need his undivided attention to spare you from my wrath.

Mistakes, I've Made a Few
I should preface all this by saying that I am on my period-so all you men out there can go "I knew it, I knew it." Admittedly it does have the tendency of reducing me to a sobbing mess on the floor or transforming me into a raging maniac, which generally means no one can tell when my period ever stops. Further I didn't get any sleep on Monday night before I returned to the city, partially because I was doing a lot of writing then because I got involved in watching Personal Velocity and finally because the night before my period I can never get comfortable enough to sleep well. I know, you needed to know that.

I digress.

Now envision this if you will, a sleep deprived hormonally imbalanced little Bunni loads herself onto Amtrak and manages to get into Penn Station. On the escalator a woman with long brown hair and freckles turn to me. I recognize her. "Did you go to NYU?" She asks me. I was going to act like I hadn't noticed her, but I am forced to acknowledge her. "Yes. We went to acting school together."

NYU Alum: Oh I was just coming back from the house my husband and I bought upstate. And you?

Bunni: I was visiting friends in Hudson NY. Still acting?

NYU Alum: Oh yeah. Doing great. And you?

Bunni: English professor.

NYU Alum: Well it was great seeing you. I have to run. Have a good day.

Bunni: You too. (under breathe) Be sure you don't trip and fall on your way to your perfect life.

Now I ask you, did I really need that kind of reminder of what an epic failure I am right as I return to NYC. Do I? I quit acting. I don't own a house. I have a teaching job in the most marginal department there is. I'm thirty and I was home to visit my fucking mother.

But still I make my way uptown only to find out that not only has my once favorite hangout been turned into Molly Pitcher's Ale House (Molly Pitcher's?-at least Josie Woods on Waverly actually has a historic reason for the name-although the location is wrong if Luc Sante knows his shit and I'm pretty sure he does) but it has been painted bright Pikachu yellow. I mean, I don't know what kind of Ale House they are thinking of. Even the pubs in Florida aren't bright yellow. Perhaps it is some sort of misguided tribute to Batman.

I manage to keep my ass awake long enough to go to dance class only to find that Roman, my favorite teacher, who I can always count on to cheer me up, feels awful. He sits next to me and starts talking to me about going back to Russia. "I had friends there, you know. I was someone there. Here I have no one." I am about to point out that he has a wife when he says, "Or maybe Germany. I have an ex girlfriend in Germany who wants me to come out there." He goes on and on. I contemplate tearing off his arm and beating some sense into him with it. He is, however, a former boxer and most likely would be able to thwarrt such an effort.

Know Thyself-
Apollonian Maxim inscribed at the Oracle Of Delphi's Temple

So now I'm exhausted and fairly disgusted with my life in the city.I am thinking "Why am I back here? In the country I was able to write. Maybe I need to give up this city life. I have enough money, I would even need to work. It's brilliant." Brilliant but lonely, of course.

Now a smart person would have just gone to sleep, but there is a problem.

Last week, before I left, Brian optometrist extracted from me no less than four times a promise to be at his birthday, which was yesterday. He was going to be at the bar and I had to (his words) be there.

Now I know from miserable birthdays. I also know from depression and loneliness and Brian is clearly both of those. He is also mostly harmless, although his stories get slimier every time I speak to him. Still, I thought I would do the nice thing. The right thing and go to this freakin' party at the bar.

I should know better than to try and be a nice person. I have no talent at it. I always screw up in a fairly flamboyant way whenever I do. But I never remember this in the moment that I am trying to be nice.

So I'm exhausted, but I get myself dressed up in a very nice outfit, cover myself in glitter, and head to the bar so that I can wish Brian a happy birthday. On the way there I call the Anonymous Poetess, who I shall hense forward refer to as Rabid. I was planning to go to the open mic again and so having missed out on the last time, she decided she wanted to be there to support me this time.


Rabid has a crush on Tsarina. Well crush isn't the right word, but you know there is something there, but they are just friends. I don't know Tsarina. I've met her once, but from what I've heard about her, I don't really trust her, and I don't like her methods. Now although Rabid is constantly saying I don't have ethics, I do. And Tsarina is someone who makes me look like a fucking paragon of self sacrifice, and that is difficult to do.

Rabid mentioned the open mic and Tsarina invited herself along and Rabid essentially accepted. And I am trying, TRYING, to be fine with this. It's an open mic I have to be able to perform in front of anyone, anyone. Still I'm going to be enough of a wreck as it is. I'm already really worried about performing and now I have this other rogue element to consider when my self esteem is already in the fucking toilet as it is. Now I have someone with a platform stiletto heel poised to flush me down.

But I am trying, trying to do the right thing. Rabid wants this. OK. I'll be OK with it. I walked sixty fucking blocks, I survived cancer, I can handle the Tsarina.

So I get to the bar to find no one is there. Mu, Abby, the Amazon, the usual bartender, even the birthday fucking boy himself isn't there. It's just me utterly exhausted standing in a bar.

Fools to the Left of Me

Brian's two brothers arrive first and sit chatting with each other with their backs to me. The claiming to be straight gay vetrinarian shows up sporting a jagermeister wifebeater to show off his tan (probably from Fire Island), and finally, just when I am ready to go home and sleep Brian shows up. He goes directly to his brothers, and an older, but still good looking man in a suit sits down on the stool to my left (you know since neither Brian nor his brothers seem to want to acknowledge me). I've seen him here a bunch of times. Usually he sits by himself at the end of the bar. He is good looking considering that he is probably 50 although maybe he is just late forties. Brian turns to say hello to him and introduces us. Let's call him The Philanderer. He had a very nice, but thin wedding band on his left hand.

Now those who know me know I live by one golden rule, no married men EVER. (Also I refuse to fool around with anyone who has been with someone I know. I don't care how drunk, how innocent, how long ago, if you've been with someone I know, you're right out of ever touching me in this life. Take note.)

So I chat politely with The Philanderer. He manages nursing homes. I can talk trade with him about doctors and nurses and unions. I'm trying to keep things above board but he keeps falling silent and looking at me like Wiley E Coyote regarding the Road Runner. He finds subtle ways of brushing his leg against mine or touching my shoulder. And all the while Brian, Brian is chatting away with his brothers as if I had never bothered to come in the first place.

Jokers to the Right

I never thought I would happy to see Captain Ron come ambling in suburned from renting his little motorized boats at the pond in Central Park. The Philanderer was getting close to being drunk enough to ask me for a rendez-vous, I could see it in him, and Ron's entrance gave me the reason I needed to turn my back on him. Ron sat down on my right side and began a long monologue about how he was going to go back to grad school to study environmental science because "that was where it is going to be ten years from now. You know, in ten years we won't have electricty. You won't be able to run your AC. We aren't going to have any resources." This isn't what I needed to hear especially since I still don't have AC even now. Then Ron launched on a big harang about overpopulation. Finally he ordered a glass of white wine and fell asleep on the bar.

By this time Courtney (Abby's roommate) and Abby had showed up. I was able to chat with them and not have to worry about geo political issues or getting hit on. Two girls, one who is Brian's cousin, arrive. Brian doesn't feel the need to introduce us.

Abby goes to say hello to her friends playing pool leaving me to chat with Courtney. I am asking her about her man in Baltimore. "Well, I like him, but I like the one who lives here better." "Ah yes, but you always have to have back-up, you know, insurance." The Philanderer has been listening. "I didn't know girls think that way." "Well we learned from men. I'm all about the quid pro quo and free trade." The Philanderer is silent for a moment. "I like your style," he tells me. This is the high point of my day to be admired by some would be cheating older man who sits alone in bars. I can't tell you the thrill.

Courtney and I ignore the Philanderer and when Abby returns Courtney decides, rightly, to go home. Brian, who I didn't know liked country music, puts on selections from Country Music's Greatest Hits to Commit Suicide By.

A tall blonde with a model's physique walked in. I saw her from behind and based on her rhinestone trimmed jeans and tank top plus her body, I thought "Oh she must be about 26." She turned around.

She was about forty five. Her trim physique was at the expensive of her face which looked like Holocaust survivor meets David Cronenberg special effect meets Mary Kay Cosmetics. It is one thing to have high cheek bones, it is another for your cheeks to be sallow cavernous basins. Her hair was dyed that awful hay yellow and she wore Miami retiree iridescent pink lipstick. Her tanktop said, in hot pink, TRAMP. I shook my head as she walked up to the bar.

Stuck in the Middle

After napping for an hour, Ron decides to go home, but assures us he might be back later. Abby, taking advantage of my state, tells me all that is going on in her life, a long and meandering narrative involving a complete and utter lack of point. We agree that after finishing our drinks we will walk home together. Brian is now chatting very involved with the Cronenberg Effect. He brings her over to Abby and I. "This is Bunni and Abby, my friends." "You know it is his birthday today." She has a heavy accent, Brazilian I think. "Yes," I tell her, "I know that its his birthday." That's why I have been sitting at this bar utterly fucking exhausted covered in glitter for four fucking hours. Yes, I am aware it's his birthday.

Abby and I finish our drinks. I walk over to say good night to Brian and his brothers and the Cronenberg Effect. As I walk up I hear Brian saying to the Cronenberg Effect, "You don't really have to go into work tomorrow. Call in sick." Brian goes to hug me and I am so disgusted I don't hug him back. (Ask Rabid for verifiication but I am the master of the cold shoulder.) He pulls back "You can't hug me back?" he says. "You ignore me at the bar for four hours so you can talk to this slag in ho wear and now NOW you want a hug?" I don't say this, but I am tempted. "Oh I just don't want to ruin your chances with her." I can't even bring myself to say CE's name.

Abby hugs Brian and I am so angry that I tromp out of the bar without saying good bye to anyone else. "Why are you so angry? You weren't going to fuck him were you?"

"Even if, IF, I ever considered sleeping with Brian, and no generally I don't find depressive optometrists who suffer from gynomastia attractive, he's lucky I even hug him considering what I know about him."

"Like what?"

"You don't want to know."

"Just give me an example."

"OK how about the woman in Israel he had sex with and it turns out she had scabies, but it was OK because he is resistant."

"You're kidding."

"Or going to a Korean massage parlor or having sex with a married woman while her husband watched. That's just a smattering of what I never needed to know in this life. So no I would never EVER touch Brian."

"So why are you mad?"

"Because I'm fucking exhausted and I've had a miserable day and I come out here to try and be a good person and I don't even get fucking aknowledged. I could have been sleeping. I COULD HAVE BEEN SLEEPING."

By this time, I'm at my door. I go inside tear off my clothes and climb into bed.

The One Good Part of My Day

As I put my head on the pillow, my cat curls up by my head and licks my cheek. Then she stretchs out facing the room as if to protect me from whatever horror may attack me in bed. Finally I fall asleep and manage to not even dream.

Promises, Promises: Pompeii
As you can see I am a creature of the moment, no attention span at all when it comes to what I want to write. If I don't write it in the moment, the odds are I will lose interest and never do so. But I promised you Pompeii and since I really do have to spend this week writing my syllabus and figuring out what to teach those dunderheads, I figure all that I've blogged this last week will give you all something to chew on.
My mother decided that the best way to get to Pompeii, since we had been warned about Naples, was simply to hire a car. We would drive out there, spend some time, and then come back to Rome for dinner at Nino's (recommended in the Eyewitness Guide for its Tuscan fare-I particularly enjoyed the artichokes, which I generally don't like, and the white beans in olive oil-the wine glasses do leave something to be desired, but it's worth it in the end). So our driver came to pick us up, and we headed out to Pompeii.

I've always wanted to go to Pompeii, but it's strange. I never really thought about it until I was on my way there. Suddenly I began to ponder what I was really doing. About three days after September Eleventh I ran into a friend from college by the six train. We stood there chatting about what we were doing as if the sky hadn't crashed in our heads two days before. As we stood there a family walked up to us; they were clearly tourists (maps, sneakers, loaded with packages from places like the Hard Rock). The mother, who had a deep southern accent (I'm thinking rural Mississippi), asked us if we knew the way to ground zero. She had three young boys with her. My friend explained that the four or five train in theory could take them down to ground zero, but the army wouldn't let them get that close to the area. They wouldn't be able to see anything. She left and although my friend and I never said anything, we were both revolted. It was the first experience I had with tragedy tourism. It was disgusting enough she wanted to go there herself while they were still trying to figure out if there were any survivors, but to bring her young sons was just incomprehensible.

On that trip to Pompeii I began to wonder about that tourism. I was going to a place that was famous for being destroyed in a freak volcanic erruption. Three thousand people died at Pompeii alone. Was I really any better than that Southern tourist? Sure I was coming 2000 years afterwards and not three days, but is that really a virtue? Does the passage of time some how change the fact that I wanted to see a city famed for its destruction and its inability to recover? I remembered a line from Stand By Me (because at some point I ceased being a person and simply became an amalgam of lines from movies, plays, and stand up comedians) "We're going to see a dead body. Maybe it shouldn't be a party." It would be ok for me to go Pompeii, I just had to have reverence for what I was seeing and not treat it like Disneyworld.

We finally reached Pompeii. There is nothing there except the ruins, a hotel, a small snack stand, and three or four vendors of chintzy souvenirs. They actually sell little Vesuvius snowglobes. I would have bought one if instead of white snow, there had been red and orange bits mixed with glitter to represent fire. I mean, if you are going to be in bad taste go all the way.

We contracted a licensed guide and went up to the ruins. We would have about two hours or so. Barely enough time since the city itself is about two miles. Our guide could do what I could not, identify what the ruins were (remember I deal with the written word which doesn't really help when you are looking at columns), but his knowledge of mythology left a great deal to be desired, which was fine since I excell in that area and could supply to my mother what was missing. He took us to the baths, the theaters, the place where the gladiators trained. He took us to the Forum. He showed us the rich quarter.

What I didn't know until after I left was that Pompeii is known for its erotic frescoes. One of the building is suspected of being a bordello and supplied its clients with a visual menu of delights on sale. A dead city with a reputation for porn-what could be a more accurate symbol for me? Unfortunately our guide was apparently too embarassed to show a mother and daughter the frescoes, and so I didn't know until after we left. (There were books available on the erotic frescoes at Pompeii on sale at the museum bookstore. I didn't get one, but start thinking ahead for christmas.)

It was at this point I began to wonder about my mother's education, an issue which would continue through the trip. The guide showed us some glass, and my mother was shocked "They had glass?" "Mom, we saw glass from 350 BC yesterday at Castel Sant Angelo. If they had in 350 BC (and they had it before then) it only makes sense it would still be around in 79 AD." The guide pointed to the lead pipe which pumped water through the rich part of town. "They had running water?" "Mom, the Romans were famous for this kind of thing. You know, the aqueducts?"

Still the technical achievements of the Romans are impressive. Walking from room to room in the baths one can still feel the temperature change. 2000 years later the baths still work as they were intended (or would completely if they were used). My super can't get my AC to work for more than two years. The drain on my shower only works for a few days at best. During the Roman Empire was the last time the British had any decent plumbing at all. They still can't handle giving you a drink that is anything more than tepid, and water pressure in the shower is right out. (I'm sorry blogmonkey but you know its true.) I tell you we could use a few more Romans right about now.

And as we went through I was impressed about how little things have changed in 200o years. They had porn. They had a welfare system. They had rich politicians who made empty promises to the poor. They had cheap and sleazy entertainment (gladiators) to keep the poor happy, while the rich monopoloized political power. They had graffiti. They had good and bad parts of town. Mario Vargas Llosa was correct about the universality of human experience. Sure there is a lot of difference in technological achievement between the Romans and say NYC, but in terms of what actually goes on, I think, given a wardrobe change and a crash ESL course, the average Roman citizen would be able to blend pretty easily. Sooner than you think he would be talking about American Idol while organizing his iPod. And should this ever occur, please send him to my apartment to work on the plumbing.

But I was wandering through the streets of Pompeii, getting dust on my feet, I thought about all those years that I thought of Pompeii as a symbol of my life. This thriving entity suddenly destroyed by random tragedy never to recover. I thought about all the people in my life who think of themselves as broken, as ruined. The Amazon's boyfriend The Puerto Rican Redneck (it's what he calls himself, I swear), Mu ( a former model whose fiance died in a car accident), my dear Bakerina (when she is having one of her I should just quit blogging days), even my own mother, the list goes on and on-people who when you look at what they have accomplished with awe say to you "Oh this is nothing. You should have seen me when." People who date their heyday back to 1979 or 83 or 99 or whatever year they happened to have been hit. And I thought what utter bullshit it all was. Sure Pompeii didn't fully recover, but its still there. The baths still work. The frescoes are still on the walls. The freaking plumping system is intact. Is it as impressive as it was 2000 years ago? Probably not. But it's still fucking impressive and it's important to remember that. It's still awfully amazing. It's still powerful. And it's still here.

And it also has the best fresh orange juice in the world. And that has to count for something.

My mother kept wanting to take my picture, knowing that to being Pompeii was a lifelong dream, but like my first trip to Paris, I didn't want to waste time posing in front of buildings. I wanted all my time to be about being there and seeing as much as possible. But I also didn't want any "And here is Bunni smiling and standing next to the ruins of civilization" pictures. I bought some postcards before I left from one of the vendors and we began on our long trip back.

As I said before, my mother has willed narcolepsy. In the car ride back, she was sitting in full lotus position seeming to look out the window. My mother is a very restless person. I was occupied with writing in my journal, reading Paul Auster's Leviathan, and looking out the window. But Mom was too quiet and finally I began twisting my head so I could see her face. She had fallen asleep in full lotus position and remained that way until we got back to Rome.

We had dinner early so we could go to train station the next morning because we were heading to meet her friends Franco and Sharon at Arma di Taggio.
Coming Soon: The Levels of Hell that Dante Forgot

For O Posted by Hello
I was finally able to download some of the photos I took in Florida, like this lovely one. It seems O has been going through some sort of Georgia O'Keefe (or perhaps Robert Mapplethorpe) phase of photography. I thought I'd offer this little contribution to his collection of posie pictures. It's the closest thing to a hooter shot he is likely to get from me.

I Loved Paris

French Waiter: How are you today?
Mr Creosote: Better.
French Waiter: Better?
Mr. Creosote: Better get a bucket. I'm going to puke.

How strange that just as I was editing my Paris travels so I can submit them to be published as a single really really long essay, and my mother gives me two books on Paris that this article appears.

Tom Cruise, a Scientologist, a religion which was formally charged with murder in Florida, but was never prosecuted because "who do you prosecute when a religion is to blame?" ( this is not to suggest that Cruise is responsible, but rather that his snark at Shields for taking anti depressants, which may very well be warranted-is offensive in light of his apparent ignorance that members of his religion let a fellow member die in a hotel room rather then allow her to receive medical attention) proposed to Katie Holmes on the top of the Eiffel Tower.

I knew there was a really good reason that neither time I went to Paris I made it to the Eiffel Tower. Is it wrong that this piece of media trash makes me feel so awful? Not that I want a forty something year old wacked out on some marginal cult to propose to me on top of a foreign monument. Trust me I've had offers. (Remember Kalibaba? He didn't even make it through one date.) The one dollar lap dance holds a lot more appeal. Although honestly I NEVER thought Cruise was hot. Remember I like the blondes. (I admit it. I'm more of a Val Kilmer girl and I'll watch Real Genius over Born on the Fourth of July any day or night of the week. Mmmmmm Geek comedy goodness.)

Honestly, it's moments like this that I understand why the French hate us. Why couldn't he have done it at Niagra Falls and then the two of them could have gone over the Falls in a bucket and we could all be a little happier. And why couldn't some obonxious French person just gently elbow one of them over the edge? I mean, they were always jostling me and there can't be THAT much space at the top of the tower.

Is that really so much to ask?


And he better stay off Rue de Peletier.

Because What Happens in Catskill...

Is apparently rebroadcast all over the world. So I was going to bring my mother's digital camera last night, and then I thought "You know the less evidence of this there is the better." Of course then I commence to come here and tell you all about it, but at least there are no online photos circulating (although I am in possession of one very incriminating polaroid).
Now it would seem to me that going to an evening of hot nearly naked oiled up men would have to be even more exciting than evening out drinking with a divorcee and a gay man. (Incidentally this is my first time seeing a male stripper.) But of course, seems and is are two completely different things. I had pretty much embraced that this was going to be a kind of "no boundaries" kind of night. I was going to be out with WotY and the Fargo girls. WotY wanted to know what I would be wearing in advance.

Bunni:Oh you know, something appropriately slutty.

WotY: I don't have anything slutty.

Bunni: Oh I always have something sleazy I can throw on. How sad is that up from the city for five days and I have appropriate ho wear for a male stripper evening?

I throw on a lacy slip over my Italian lace bra and my jeans. Apply eye make up the way the drag queens taught me way back when and head over to WotY's house. She is wearing a white suit with a brown lacy top. Kind of imagine what Mark Twain would have worn if he was an attractive business woman and you have the idea. The Fargo hookers pick us up, they are at least in slut wear, but then that's their general look.

On the way over we talk about men and their bodies. I tell the Fargo hookers about my plan to start licensing men in order to appear topless in public. If you want to take your shirt off, you have to apply to a board of gay men and straight women. You must get 8o % approval in order to receive the license, which must be clearly visible at all times (perhaps on a leather thong around the neck or attached to the belt). The license must be renewed every year. The blonde Fargo hooker remarked, "Yeah you must get some real winners in New York since you are the host of the trail mix of the world there."

I thought that this was a brilliant statement.

The audience at this event was worth the price admission on its own. We sat near the back by the wall, which should have indicated to me the relative uncomfortableness of my companions, but there didn't seem to be a lot of empty seats. Behind us sat three sixteen year old girls with those underage bracelets. They were all dressed up in jeans and spiky heels and almost perfect make up. Near the front was a bachelorette party-she was young, 22, no make up, jeans and a t-shirt-but her whole party was giddy drunken-not bad drunken but the we want to have a good time tipsiness. They arrived in a white stretch limo. On the side was a forty year old woman having her birthday who was already sloshingly drunk on cuervo shots wearing a teal shirt that should never have been worn by any human being. There were the typical upstate crowd, women with bad teeth, heavy, with bangs from 1983, wearing some floral dress purchased at Walmart that should have been turned into tea towels. But there were some young good looking women. Women in their thirties, well coiffed, wearing nice outfits, tastefully made up, and waiting patiently for naked men.


"Essentially the film board decided that a naked man is pornographic, but not entertaining, which I thought was interesting because naked women have been considered entertainment for naked men for hundreds of years." -Bill Hicks
For me nudity has never been really sexual. This is partially due to my medical background. When you have been naked in front of as many doctors and nurses and technicians and assistants, when you have been naked under flourescent lights, when you have been naked in ORs and ERs and examination rooms, it ceases to be sexual. On many levels for me it's just the most comfortable. I still prefer to sleep naked most of the time. When I do go to sleep in a t-shirt or pjs, I usually throw them off half way through the night. So the taboo of nudity has never really impacted on me, and when people are uncomfortable about it in my presence I have trouble understanding what exactly the trouble is. It's natural for crickey sake. Not that I am about to walk naked in front of my class, but, well, I just don't see what the big deal is about seeing a few men dance almost naked.

But perhaps this is a flaw in my personality, not to see the massive problem with male nudity.

The Hollywood Centerfolds were scheduled to perform at ten. By eleven they were still not onstage. Not that I am being critical of their technical requirements, but they were hardly putting on the Phantom of the Opera. All they needed were some lights and a few bottles of baby oil. The crowd was beginning to get restless, the tequila drunken birthday girl went to get sick in the parking lot. Her friends told her she better not be hungover for Father's Day.

Finally they came on. Two of the dancers, Gemini and Deisel performed to "Save a horse, ride a cowboy." And then of course the lapdances began while the performances continued onstage.

Bunni, you ask, Bunni oh Bunni, did you get a lapdance?

I hear your cry. I have to ask you, what kind of girl do you take me for that I could be presented with the option of being slathered with oil by the absolute pinnacle of physical human perfection for several minutes for no more than a dollar and actually say no? I mean really. This was a no regrets weekend. I was going all the way.

Gemini made his way through the crowd dancing for various women, he was obviously the favorite even though at five foot eight he was far shorter than the other two featured dancers. (There were really only the three, but occassionally some less attractive men would come ambling out half naked for a g-string full of ones and the crowd, liquored up as they were, were ready to oblige.After looking at the website today I realized these lesser performers must be local strippers -most likely out of Albany-that were contracted just for this show.) I'll be honest with you, considering my body issues, I've always been in the "Oh it doesn't REALLY matter camp."

Uh, yeah, except that I have never, ever in my life seen definition like this up close. You could use this guy to teach a physiology class. Every step brought out this whole dance of ripples through his whole body. I mean it wasn't quite like finally seeing the Sistine Chapel. But it was close. Finally he makes his way up to me upon which point he jumps up on my chair so that his oiled abs are right in my face. He slowly moved down my body. As a joke, before he walked over, I had put a dollar bill down my cleavage. (Another girl had put a folded up dollar bill in her mouth and received a lovely kiss.) He took the bill in his mouth, which I expected. Now it takes a lot to surprise a little Bunni like me, but what happened next had me flat out. Instead of pulling the bill out, he put it farther in so his face was submerged in my breasts. Then he pressed my breasts together and rubbed his face back forth before finally removing the bill. I don't think I stopped laughing the entire time.

The hookers refused his offer of a lap dance, and WotY actually went up to the bar and remained there for the rest of the evening. I was perfectly happy to watch the crowd and the dancers continue to perform to "Bad to the Bone" and other assorted hits. In the bathroom I hear two women talking about if their students knew what they were up to they would die. "Oh are you teachers too?" I asked. They were first grade teachers. We chatted for a while about teaching and then moved onto the dancers, who we liked the best, who we thought had the best moves. I told them about not bringing a camera so there would be no evidence. "yes," said one of the teachers, "I got a polaroid with one of the dancer's. I don't know where I am going to hide it from my husband."

Before I left, Gemini came over and gave me another dance. He kissed me, as he did all the women, and then went over to the next girl with a smile.

In the car afterwards the Fargo hookers wondered if those guys were gay or if they liked their jobs. All I will say is this, during that last dance Gemini took my hands in his and guided them down his body. All the way down. And so yes he really really likes his job. Really. I'm pretty fond of it too, I have to say. And then he put my hands on his ass, which is as close to perfection as I am ever likely to come in this life. Even one of the Fargo hooker's had to admit she kept thinking about his ass. And she never felt it in her hands. I however knew the full force of their greatness.

At the end they gave out business cards and announced they were glad to do "bachelorette parties, birthday parties, divorce parties, and plain ole I just want a naked up man to dance for me parties." I'm thinking I need to have more of these parties.

In the car WotY was saying, "Well there was no way I was going to get all hot and bothered and have some oiled up guy I can't have all rubbing me." Despite what I said, the stripping isn't really all that sexual. I mean, most of the time I was laughing, I was entertained, tickled if you will, but I wasn't turned on by it. The reason why they call it edult entertainment is because it's entertaining. One some level it's just another show, with costumes and music and characters. No more or less involving than say "Tony n' Tina's Wedding."

One of the Fargo hookers wondered if they liked their job. You know there are some people who will do anything to bring down a perfectly harmless good time. When you think about it, it has to be a really awful life. I mean you have to maintain this absolutely perfect physique and tan and let's not even discuss the monthly waxing and buffing bills. You have to worry about aging. And then all this work to schlep up to frickin' Catskill to perform for a handful of women who shove one dollar bills down your g string? At least top level female strippers get twenties and fifties, these guys were working hard just to get a dollar. It makes one wonder how they even make money at all. And of course this type of job is limited. You aren't going to be doing this for the long term. And so what do you do when you retire from male stripperdom? Is there some sort of like service group that helps aid the transition? I'm thinking Deisel isn't a name that is really going to do well in the world of finance.

On the other hand what other job could you get paid, get paid, to put your face in a woman's breasts. Most places they would fire you and press charges. So there is definately the upside. Oh that and the travel. (They have performed in places like Las Vegas and New York City.)

"Besides," WotY commented, "I would never pay for it."

And this is where I got offended.

I'll be honest with you. I've been with some fabulous men in this life. Really and truly. And when I say fabulous I mean that in every sense of the word, physical beauty, sexual prowess, intellectual achievement, morally upstanding. I don't have to pay for a beautiful man to touch me either. But in the normal scope of human interaction, then I have worry about his expectations, and what does he want from me and etc etc and what if I don't want something sexual I just want a five minute dance with no conversation and no effort on my part to entertain? What if for about five minutes I want to feel like Cleopatra and you are my little fan boy here for my entertainment and then to piss off into the night? Hmmmm.... Some one famous once said that you don't pay a hooker to sleep with you, you pay her to leave afterwards. Well these guys allow me, for a very low price, to fulfill that need in a mutual beneficial way without any of the strings attached. What, really in the grand scheme of things, is so bad about that,hmmmm?

So if you ever need some adult male entertainment, ask for Gemini. And tell him Bunni sent you.

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