I dragged two friends to accompany me to the male ‘review’
held in a harsh-florescent lit Sports hall; not too conducive to a seductive
atmosphere, but that didn’t seem to stop the group of scantily clad Mums on a
rare night out from the Hubby and kids.
War paint was applied, there were spanx as far as the eye could see and
trousers were the clothing of choice – on the off chance that one of the
performers saw fit to swing me round his neck like a hula hoop (highly
unlikely, as I didn’t see any signs of a cherry picker brought in for the sole
purpose of hoisting my (not unsubstantial) buttocks six feet in the air).
The excitable women heaved into the bar, the air heavy with
the scent of HRT patches, Max Factor and ‘Charlie’. The wild look in the eyes of some of the
women was enough to bring a lump to the throat of even the most hardened of
performers (pardon the pun); so much so that I wondered if the guy in the
Police Officer’s outfit would actually have to use his Mace on the front
row. I needn’t have worried though, as
they seemed more interested in their Lambrini drinking competition and dancing
to the Nolan’s as part of the warm up disco.
The male performers were toned, buff, scrubbed and hairless
and I don’t think any amount of adoration from the crowd could live up to the
overwhelming feeling of adoration they felt whilst looking in the mirror,
however.
The first performer started energetically in his ‘officer
and a gentleman’ uniform. I recognised
the Lady who works at the checkout at the local Supermarket be selected for the
grand finale. She was MAJORLY
excited. Quite frankly, I’ll never look
at her in the same light again and I no longer feel comfortable with her
handling my root vegetables. I’ll take
my chances with the ‘unexpected items in the bagging area’ and self-scan in
future!
It was quite surreal when I looked around to room to see
women of all ages, careers and social groups all gathered together in the glare
of a strip light, hoping for a quick glimpse of a male member. Even more strange when you consider that probably
over 90% of the audience had actually left their husband on the sofa at home
and he would only be too willing to whip out their Willy at a moment’s notice,
anytime of the day or night for the titillation of their wife. Yet the thought of a fleeting glimpse of a
complete stranger’s (who probably uses more beauty products that the entire
front row of the audience) and the chance of a few alcopops and the combined
women of suburbia are whipped into a frenzy!
I think it was the older women that shocked me. They seemed to be like caged tigers – leaving
their inhibitions at home with their slippers and copy of Take a Break. One
women was gyrating so wildly on the dance floor, I thought she was going to do major
damage to a speaker with her ‘helicoptering bosoms’. Thankfully the DJ noticed just in time and
managed to avoid any disaster from her unharnessed mammaries. There was a Lady in a wheelchair enjoying the
evening’s entertainment, although her presence on the dance floor wasn’t
enjoyed by many of the other women who repeatedly had their ankles skinned as
she did figure eights to Culture Club. Maybe
she’d had one too many Bacardi Breezers and lost control on her on board
navigation system? Even my robotic
hoover has a sensor to avoid ramming foreign objects – what can’t this be
incorporated into prams, wheelchairs and shopping trolleys? Another first for the evening – I’d never
seen anyone do the hokey kokey in a wheelchair!
Highlight of the night for me was seeing the look of
combined shock, excitement and titillation of my friend when I came back from
the toilet to be greeted with her squealing ‘I’ve just seen a willy!’ Bless her.
It was like an epiphany; she was seeing with new eyes! Apart from the fact that she’s been married for
25 years and has three children, so I have no idea just why she was so
excitable! A quick sit down and a Vodka
Cruiser though and she was right as rain; although the picture of her little
excited face will stay with me for a long time!
Almost like a child looking excitedly at a puppy in the pet shop
window. You just know if she was allowed
to hold that puppy, she’d squeeze the life out of it.
Speaking of Vodka Cruisers – what kind of fresh hell is
this? Last night, I drank 8. Yes, 8!
I had a combination of lemon and lime, Very Berry and Guava (like a
slightly ‘M’ rated Um Bongo, if I’m honest).
I waited patiently for my buzz. I
longed for the fuzzy feeling you get when the alcohol arrives and your
inhibitions stand up, make their excuses and leave for the evening, to be
replaced by the flirty, confident, hilarious you that resides within the
usually repressed, tweed knickers.
Perhaps the Lemon and Lime was too conservative. I upped the ante to Very Berry, throwing
caution to the wind as I had absolutely no idea what kind of berry the ‘very’
even was! Three bottles later…
nothing. Everyone was still very much
in sharp focus with the unflattering neon strip lighting. How I longed for the blurry forgiveness of
drunken soft focus – why was it alluding me? By this point in the evening, I’d ingested
more E numbers than a fat kid at a lolly buffet. There was no way I’d be sleeping any time
before Wednesday and they were so sugary and fruity, I was convinced I would
poop a jelly baby in the morning. But
STILL no euphoric buzz that I would normally anticipate after my third Sav
Blanc on a Tuesday night whilst watching Grey’s Anatomy; total
disappointment. The only saving grace
would be that I would be dusting at 2am and my breath smelt like Tixylix –
actually, maybe that would have been preferable for my longed for high, or
asked my OCD friend for her hand sanitiser and had a squirt of that instead.
Coincidentally, my friend’s hand sanitiser came in useful as
one of my friends chose to bring along a sushi platter for her contribution
towards the shared snacks. She claims it
was purchased by her husband; he’s always had delusions. Not for him a bag of twiglets and a shop
bought dip. Plus, he’s always been a
little over protective of his wife and I think there may have been a subtle
ulterior motive of keeping the male entertainers at arm’s length with the feint
whiff of fish permeating from his wife.
I must admit, I did keep smelling my fingers after my third serving and
there’s nothing less attractive than ‘sushi teeth’ when you pose for a
photo. Is that seaweed in your teeth, or
do you have a Meth habit at the weekend?
Towards the end of the night, hardly anyone batted an eyelid
at the man in the S.W.A.T Team outfit, gyrating his hips to Tom Jones’ ‘Sex
Bomb’. The tables of tipsy women were
more enthused by the Abba medley in between acts and the effort it took to get
their collective bingo wings swinging in unison than the chance of a peak at a
male todger. Perhaps they were overcome
by the fumes from the fake tan coming from their toned torsos, or maybe once
you’d seen one middle aged Lady ‘hula-hooped’ round a strippers neck, you’d
seen them all. It was quite entertaining
until she laughed and her dentures flew out and lodged themselves in the cork
tiles by the dart board. I hope the
venue’s Public Liability insurance was up to date!
All in all, I had a good night, until my knicker elastic
gave way during a vigorous ‘running man’ dance routine to a Will Smith
number. I think it was time to go home
to my own male member.
