Remembrances of Banana Hammocks Past: My Life as a Male Stripper

When I look back on my days of dousing myself in glitter and baby oil and donning themed banana hammocks on a nightly basis, the thing I miss most isn’t the sweaty, glitter- and baby oil-covered dollar bills, the schnockered old women, for whom no never means no, or even the prescription pills, which flowed like water down at the Hung Haus; it’s the men who, like me, cast aside doubt and all but a shred of clothing, and said, “Here I am, world! Here’s my junk, you sassy octogenarian, you! This is me, jiggling and jangling about like so many car keys, you dangerously intoxicated bachelorette!”
    The likeminded group of men who think that history could stand to be sexed up a bit: “Here’s what Crazy Horse might’ve looked like if, instead of rebelling against the encroaching US government, he had rebelled against pants and the common laws of human decency;” “Here’s what Abe Lincoln might’ve looked like if, instead of freeing the slaves, he had freed the James-Younger gang (What I call my knob and berries);” “Here’s what Genghis Kahn might have looked like if, instead of clubbing women with a club, he had clubbed them with his bell end.”
    The men who faced the tough questions:
    “Should I shave my chest hair into a big arrow pointing down at my dong?”
    “What are the moral ramifications of ramificating my wiener into the face of someone’s grandmother?”
    “Where’d all those oxycontins go?”
    And so forth.
    The men who know every word to “It’s Rainin’ Men,” and tear up for nostalgia whenever, and wherever they hear it.
    The men who aren’t afraid to question generally accepted social mores: “Who says getting a boner in public is a bad thing?”
    The men who look past all barriers, social, economic, age, etc., and say, “Gotta dollar? Wanna tuck it near my junk?”