The Kind of Girl Who … helps herself to a big ol' slice of beefcake (guest post by sandyb)

You guys! I’m so psyched! While I’m getting over yesterday’s odd depression with my Loretta Lynn “he done me wrong” playlist, one of my VERY FAVORITE bloggers has agreed to write a guest post! And oh em gee, guys, what a guest post it is. Said blogger is the inimitable sandyb, another woman on a self-reinvention quest to cross off items on Her List before her 30th birthday. Her blog, reinventing sandyb, is by turns hilarious, poignant, and deeply inspiring, and your RSS feed is absolutely craving it.

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NTKOG: The kind of girl who walks into a strip club and says, “How much for a dance, Beefcake?”

I am: a gal who will do anything in the name of “research”. Just pass me a martini, please.

I am not: the kind of girl who has ever used the words “cock” “Beefcake” or “Poutine” in a single post. Until now. Only the best for my girl blogcrush, NTKOG. Read on, my friends. Read on.

The Scene: Montreal. 2003. Me – the eager young journalist on an all-expenses paid conference for young journalist types. I’m in a city that, on top of being the birthplace of Poutine, has more boy-girl strip clubs than any other city in the country. It also sells booze in grocery stores, has declared eating cheese a pastime, and has the hottest gay men. Ever. And all of them happened to be dancing at the strip club I walked into in the name of “research” late one night in 2003.

“I can do this,” I say to my photographer-friend who agrees to accompany me on my escapade to “Sex World” (although, it doesn’t take much convincing, just the promise of free beer and a gratis titty show from a dancer of his choice. Done deal.)

As we stand outside the club, the “Sex World” sign flashing fluorescently above our heads, we are like two pioneers on the edge of discovery, armed with nothing more than the hunger to learn. And see naked people dance, dance, dance.

I have it all planned out: Walk in, all cool and mature-like, giving off the vibe that I’ve done this before, sit down and order a martini (request it be “stiff”, just for fun) and then order me a side of Beefcake – my very own private dancer.

The martini comes and I down it, fast. I order my photog-friend a beer, then boobs. As he enjoys the last few minutes of my thanks-for-coming-out-gift (5’9”, sporting D-cup store-boughts and blonde hair), I scout the stage, which is flanked by poles, glittery curtains and curls of smoke, for my man-meat.

Here’s what I quickly realize: There’s something about a penis surrounded by 250 pounds of muscle, spray tan and neatly coiffed pubes that just screams “Porn!” And although I’ve seen a nudie flick or two by this time in my life, I assure you nothing – NOTHING –prepared me for the real thing. But I press on.

For research.

At the very least I figure the story will be something I sell for a few cents a word to some indie publication back at home. “Someday,” I think to myself, “this will be something to share”.

(And so here I am, six years later sharing it with you all. Don’t sweat it though, this one’s on me.)

My photog-friend points out that for him the female strippers represent the “unattainable”; a chance to stare, to gawk, and to enjoy the female form without being judged or relegated to “pervert”. This is a place, he tells me, where he can just “appreciate the female body”, and I believe him. He is a photographer after all – a lover of pretty things.

But what does this mean for me? Why am I here?

Once the female dancer is done trotting and spinning atop her stilettos (such an athlete she was!) for my photog-friend, he summons the Beefcake my way with a $20 bill.

The Beefcake looks at me (“Porn!”) and makes his way to my side, glistening in a mixture of olive oil with a coconut twist.  Delish.

He dances. He flexes. He undulates through the hips. His penis flaps and bops about, like a kid jacked on sugar, trying to high-five me, but missing.

It. Just. Keeps. Flailing.

Like a solar eclipse, I can’t stare directly at it. I sort of look at it sideways, all peripheral like, hoping that my face doesn’t look as awkward as it feels. Although I think it does. Probably worse.

Finally, the song is over, the flailing stops, and I realize I have survived the dance and taken one for the team. Victory! My research is complete. But then, wait.. Beefcake grabs… no, no GRIPS my hair, thrusts back my head, looks right at me and says, “You like my cock?” and kisses me hard. Wet and warm. Slimy and fast.

He KISSES me. And I don’t stop him at all.

For research.

The Verdict: I am the kind of girl who will do anything for a good story. (And a stiff martini.)

Tagged as: anatomy is kind of weird, beefcake, guest post, montreal, oiled up dudes are maybe not the most attractive, peen-five, sandyb, sex world, stripclubs, stripper