Devon Hunter

I worked this weekend at a really beautiful club, which was more like a gay entertainment complex than a club. It had at least four sections, not to mention an outdoor patio area more akin to an enclosed football field. It was huge! The people were friendly, the place was well-designed and clean, and they even had a shower area for the dancers behind plate glass. Very cool.

I was, however, accused this weekend of being a player (excuse me, “playa”) by someone whom I can only think of as what is referred to as a wigger/wigga/whigga. This patron took it upon himself to “fall in love with me,” making it a huge point to repeat incessantly that he liked me because of my smile, eyes, and mind (and that my body is simply icing on the cake). Interesting, since it was too dark for him to see my smile or eyes all that well and I hadn’t said more than five words (I do admit, however, that they were multisyllabic words nonetheless). He then asked how he might get to know me better (so of course, being the self-promoting gangsta that I am, I referred him to an earlier posting on this blog: see Gay-sek-shul, Bi-sek-shul, Buy-sek-shul, and Pay-sek-shul below). (Oh, sorry for all the parentheses in this blog: Parentheticals iz gangsta)

He said that since I am a stripper (see blog entry entitled Exotic Dancers vs Strippers) I must therefore also be a player (as in someone who plays with other people’s feelings), and he would thus not be able to trust me with anything other than his penis. (insert pregnant pause) It was difficult, but I maintained decorum. Oh, the absurdity I tolerate whilst on my quest to rock out with my cock out…