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| Hunks at Midtown Ballroom |
My friend Stacey and her S.O. came over for dinner last night and it was very pleasant. I made a tuna salad (for the first time in four years) and Chad brought beers to taste. I booted them out afterwards so I could get ready to go out on the town. So nice to have good friends that one can just tell, "time to go."
I had a VIP ticket to Hunks . It turned out to be an enjoyably sad experience for which I didn't stay long. I was happy I went for the short time I did because I once again experienced something I no longer need in my life. (Like outdoor concerts and festivals.) I love crossing out future FOMO events -- it's almost as fun getting rid of old clothes.
OK. First of all, I need to confess that, in spite of my age, I still enjoy looking at an exceptional muscley male form. The fact that I'm following Thoren Bradley's wood chopping is all the proof I think I need to offer. So it's not the male body I was rejecting when I walked out. It was the scene.
I need a nice setting for sexy times and the Midtown ex-roller rink wasn't it. It's a giant barn of a place. The fog machine onstage made barely a dent in the atmosphere. Strip clubs and whore houses should be comfy. They should have soft seating and a close, friendly atmosphere. The Midtown Barn had neither. The classic metal folding chairs were cold and hard. The front row chairs were well separated for the moments of personal regard sure to come later in the evening but the spacing made the setting even more hollow. If I were younger and sitting in a comfortable chair with screaming friends around me, I might have been in the mood to drink to the point where I couldn't feel the lack of glamour. My one shot of tequila didn't do the trick.
Following the directions that came with my ticket, I got to the event space early when there were about ten other women there. Eventually there may have been as many as a hundred people in the hall which seats a thousand. Most of the other women were in groups and there was at least one hen party that I recognized from the pink cross-chest ribbon being worn by a Maid of Honor.
Once I sat down I was approached three times by fully clothed "dancers," who checked in to see if I wanted to go up on stage (I didn't) or if I had enough one dollar bills (I didn't as this hadn't been advertised as necessary so I bought $20 worth). They pushed and pushed, verbally. It turned out that being on stage would have cost me another $20, which was made clear in a later loud, garbled, announcement.
The show, scheduled to start at 8:00 didn't get going till around 8:25. The performers did one badly choreographed routine with chairs and hip thrusts and lots of violent movements, including pounding fists on their thighs. The women around me were screaming wildly. There was a lot of fuss with the lighting -- colors, flashing lights, etc -- which just seemed sad as the brightness emphasized the large, 2/3 empty space.
After the first number there were more loud announcements (that I had trouble understanding in the echoing gloom) as the dancers came through the audience promoting the idea of being onstage, talking to individual women, etc.
And that was when I left. I stopped for a minute at the front door to tell the security gal, "It's just not my scene." And she said, "Yeah, and it's mostly this ..." and pointed at the guys shilling for more money.
Basically, the whole scene was hugely exploitive. Exploitive of the men who were doing the work and probably not being paid enough so they did what all sex-workers must, be constantly selling. And exploitive of the audience who were being pushed to spend, spend, spend. The announcer even said, "Have more drinks. When you drink more, we look better."
So I was very glad that I went to this display of the egalitarian exploitation available in late-stage capitalism. But even more glad that I left and came home to a dog who loves me and a cat who tolerates me.
I give myself props for trying new things and props for leaving when it wasn't fun.
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