Right after graduation I went to visit a friend in Madrid, Spain for three weeks. He had a cozy studio and some pleasant neighbours who would often come hang out with us. One day, a girlfriend of theirs was getting married so they organised a bachelorette party in their flat a few floors below.
Someone came up with the idea of pranking the new bride by bringing a fake stripper (or escort). For some reason or the other they offered me the role. In one way, 23-year-old me was chuffed they chose him. In another, I said what the hell; if they think I can do it then I probably can.
I showered and got ready ― even trimmed my goatee ― and had a couple of frozen vodka shots to get in the mood. Remember: Do what would makes the better story. This is what I say to pump myself up before getting into risqué or daring situations.
The thing is that once I had agreed to do this, I knew I couldn’t screw up. I couldn’t, for instance, just burst into laughter ― or tears ― while performing. The bride, her bridesmaids, their little bachelorette party, it was my responsibility as a male stripper to make it work. I'm not a halfhearted kind of guy.
If I were to be convincing I needed to be convinced. If you ask anyone in the field they will say that your personality is (almost) as important as your looks. “Sexy” is mainly a state of mind. I still trimmed my goatee, though. This was sincere dedication.
As a storyteller, however, any action would suffice. You just need to dive into it head-first and let it roll.
So I took a deep breath, opened the door, and went down the stairs.
I recall there was some synchronisation going on. One of the girls came out all quietly, got back in, turned the music on pretty loud, and then back to me.
“Ready?” She asked.
“Tonight is the night I’m living my fantasy. Let’s get it on, baby.”
I went in and was lead to the sitting area. There was five or six women in their mid-twenties sitting around a table with drinks and various colourful dildos and vibrators. I began dancing to the music, slowly unbuttoning my black shirt. My main focus was the bride because that’s how it should be. So I kept eye contact with her and was giving her seductive Zoolander looks.
A couple of minutes through the striptease, she got up and started sexy dancing with me. And then at some point, something which I hadn’t considered came to mind. Now what?
Now the bride believes the act and was enjoying her time around me. I’m not sure what the girlfriends had planned, because no one discussed how the night is going to end. I wasn’t even sure if I was there as a stripper or a full escort or what. Hm. I never thought I would write such a sentence, and mean it. Let alone publishing it on the World Wide Web. But hey, someone got to do it.
I think the bridesmaids may have left the ending open. Still, I didn’t know how far is too far. I mean, what if something happens then she finds out I’m a fake hooker so she gets mad that I’m not dirty enough or something.
Oh well, we kept playing around for maybe half an hour before we broke it to her. I then took off my stripper’s persona and stayed for drinks.
If you got this far and you feel cheated, let me tell you that a good title can captivate your eyes and make you start reading. But only decent storytelling will keep you interested until you reach this very last sentence.
* The above featured photo was taken before a Santana concert we attended on that same trip ― June, 2000
|Inamorato in Madrid|
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