American hunks in a funk | PostIndependent.com
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American hunks in a funk

FRIED RICEHEIDI RICEGlenwood Springs, CO Colorado

“How would you like to go see a bunch of half-naked men tonight?” husband-head called from work to ask me on a recent afternoon.Now, I enjoy the male physique as much as the next gal, but it was a little strange be encouraged to do so by your spouse.”Ummm … have we been hitting happy hour a little early?” I asked, knowing that the bosses at husband-head’s company were on vacation.”No, but there’s one of those male review shows happening tonight and the girls from my office are going and wanted to know if you wanted to come along,” he explained. “I know you’ve had a rough month, so I thought it might be fun for you.”Twist MY arm.Actually, I haven’t been to one of those kind of shows in years. Back in my previous life when I was about 25 and living in Boston, my girlfriends and I used to attend male review shows on a pretty regular basis.In fact, I even briefly dated one of the dancers.”That’s disgusting that you kiss all those women,” I scolded him one time after the show. “Don’t you worry about getting cooties?”He assured me that his lips were slathered with petroleum jelly and then he gyrated and expected me to put a dollar in his thong.Several years later I moved to Colorado, but had to fly back to Boston for a girlfriend’s wedding. Guess where we went for her bachelorette party?The same male review show, of course.I couldn’t believe when I saw that my ex was still in the show. Only now he was the emcee instead of a dancer.”You’re STILL here?” I couldn’t resist saying to him after the performance.”And you’re STILL coming here?” he shot back.Touche.So, on a whim, I decided to go with the girls to this local show. And I was proud that I even remembered the drill and knew to have some single dollar bills in my wallet.However, the setting at this club was a little different from what I was used to. There was a tiny makeshift “stage” in the corner of the room with a plastic banner behind it that read “American Hunks,” along with three metal fold-up chairs.The group of us – one of whom was celebrating her birthday – took seats at a table not far from the stage and waited for the 9 p.m. show to start. And waited … and waited … and waited.At last, a cocktail waitress finally came over to take our drink orders.”Why don’t you just start us a tab?” I suggested to her. “I’m sure we’ll be here for awhile and will have more than one drink.”She informed me that she could only do so with a credit card, so I whipped mine out and gave it to her.Off she went, into a swimming sea of people with my credit card. I briefly thought that maybe I should’ve looked at her more closely or gotten her name.The show FINALLY started, which entailed the performers coming around with clipboards as if they were taking a survey. But apparently were asking women what “services” they would like to pay for.”Is this, like, a benefit fundraiser for sick kids or what?” I whispered to the woman next to me. “Of course not, you idiot,” she hissed back. “They’re just trying to make money.”The birthday girl signed up for a lap dance on the stage and let’s just say that the view from our vantage point was not pretty – the metal folding chairs were hunkier than these guys.Chippendale dancers they were not, and I began to lose interest after half an hour.”Am I just old or are these guys really bad?” I asked the other girls at the table.One woman looked up from trimming her cuticles and just rolled her eyes.But what I WAS very interested in was where the hell my credit card had gone since the waitress had not come back since I’d given it to her.”Ummm, a waitress took my card and I haven’t seen her since,” I told a bartender and gave her my name.”Well, we don’t have it,” she shrugged, after looking for about two seconds.I was going to be in deep doo-doo with husband-head if I didn’t get the card backAfter checking another bar station, I finally located it and left.”Please come get me!” I pleaded to husband-head on the phone outside. “I promise I’ll put a dollar in your pajama bottoms!”Heidi Rice is a staff reporter for the Post Independent. Her column runs every Friday. Visit her Web site at http://www.heidirice.com.


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