I am, and always have been, a card carrying member and fervent public supporter
of the Age Doesn't Matter Club. When it comes to sex, I believed so long as those involved have reached their legal majority, anything
goes. As a matter of fact, if you ask anyone who knows me what registers on my sexual squick meter, they're hard pressed to come up
with any example, let alone suggest questions of age. And for good reason. In congress between the sexes, beyond those games which
deal with bodily wastes and practices which are, by their natures, more criminal than consensual, there isn't anything in the realm
I find distasteful. Sure, there's stuff I wouldn't do, but just because I wouldn't do it doesn't mean that there's not a modicum of
titillation to be found in the idea—or that I don't understand why others enjoy it.
Yet, as an avid collector of adages, perhaps I should have embraced both 'time marches on' and 'live and learn' a little tighter than
I did. Why, you ask? Well, dear reader, journey with me, if you will, to this past Monday night when I and my moral snobbery found
ourselves smack in the middle of the Twilight Zone—and I still wish Rod Serling physically led the way, because I sure would've enjoyed
his hairy-chested company.
How did I stumble into that patently parallel
dimension, wherein I received not one, but three Serlingesque epiphanies? Easy. I simply raised my hand and said 'I'm game' when a
sister erotica writer suggested a handful of us go to a local strip club for their male review. Filled with fond memories of the Chippendale
craze, as well as several lesser known tours featured in local taverns during the '80's, I jumped on that plan-train faster than spit
freezes in Antarctica.
And, being a seasoned veteran, I spent the week
before amassing my dollar bills while looking forward to a great giggly girls' night out. What did it matter if my driver's license
reveals a birth date a decade earlier than the others going? There are, after all, some joys a woman never outgrows, no matter how
many times she's trudged around Life's block. So I've collected almost twenty years worth of sag since the last time I watched buff
guys bare their assets. Big frickin' deal. Naked men are naked men. Besides, I'm an author who writes sex scenes known to inflict
third-degree burns on modest minds. There isn't anything about men, dressed or undressed, that I can't handle.
But, you know, sometimes I'm so full of shit, I wonder if my eyes aren't really blue. And just to prove that very point with alacritous
certitude, Papa Time accompanied me to the show and kicked me in the head harder than Burgess Meredith in Time Enough At Last. (For
the Twilight Zone-impaired, a synopsis is here).
I suppose I should describe
the scene in which I received my first two epiphanic revelations. The room was fairly small, perhaps 15'x25', with a pad-like stage
supporting the obligatory pole in the center. Other than our group of five, initially there was only one other patron—a middle-aged
man who kept to himself. A few more women and another man arrived several hours later, but for the better part of the night, we had
the place—and the two dancers—to ourselves.
Sounds like a good thing,
doesn't it? You're wondering how bad can it be, right?
Mm-hmm. You just
keep wondering, you'll see.
The initial sign-post declaring there could
be a not-so-fun kink up ahead arrived with the first stripper, who I'll dub Kyle in the interest of secret identities. Now the doting
auntie in me found him attractive enough—dark hair and eyes, olive complexion, lean, smooth-chested with nary a trace of Mother
Nature's map of man between navel and groin. The difficulty that lies beneath that description is Kyle was young—really young. So
young, in fact, I had to scoop my shock-slack jaw off the floor and forcibly reapply it to my face. Unfortunately, it remained where
it belongs only as long as it took him to announce that it was his first time.
My squick meter immediately informed me it possesses an automatic 'on' button—who knew it came equipped with the deluxe accessories?
The discovery that, for me, age matters after all was startling and...interesting. So, once again rescuing my tactless chin from the
floor, I said to myself, 'Okay, Deb, no problem here. Everybody must start somewhere. Surely you can weather watching a baby belly
long enough for the kid to get his feet wet—even if said belly begs for raspberry tickles accompanied by 'who's the big boy' more
than it incites salacious interest .
Ah yes, my hubris knows no bounds.
I settled in as well as I could, determined to ignore the internal meter humming its displeasure. 'Shut up', I told it sternly, 'we're
in a dark corner here, we'll go unnoticed if we stay very, very quiet.'
Still, the more Kyle bared, the more I fidgeted in time to increasingly rapid squawks emitted by that heretofore compliant squick
meter. Eventually, likely in response to my companions' boisterous and avid appreciations, he gained some confidence and, next thing
you know, despite my fortressed defensive position, his string-bikini-clad ass ended up in my lap.
My squick meter squeaked like a cat-pinned mouse, and I could no longer ignore the faces of my dozen nephews—most of them older than
the dancer—parading through my head. Visions of diapered toddlers blooming into maturity traipsed along in unpleasant example, scattering
small, lemon-sucking shudders down my spine in their wake.
If I could
have become One with the foundation under the floor, my soul would have cheerfully surrendered itself. Hell may excel at torment,
but its flames couldn't touch the agony of earth at that moment, even were it to employ a steady cameo steam of history's most infamous
pedophiles. I was disturbed to realize that, although my best friend and I like to say when we're old and wearing purple, we'll be
the best dirty old women the world has ever known, I think I'm going to suck the big one in that endeavor.
Epiphanies aside, this was nothing compared to the next surprise, which too many years in legal offices should have prepared me for.
The club doesn't serve alcohol. In Pennsylvania, that means clothing is optional and no g-string modesty is required. Suffice to say
that, by the time the young man finished, I saw more of him than I ever wanted to see of any man under the age of thirty—maybe even
forty—and my squick meter screamed full agreement.
Well, as I'm sure you
can imagine, when Kyle departed the stage, I breathed a hefty sigh of relief. I should have allowed my audacity to follow his popped-cherry
butt out of the room, but of course, I didn't. Instead, I turned my thoughts to what surely would be a more pleasant future.
Unfortunately, Lady Luck decided my pomposity required further spanking. She conspired with ol' Time to drag me deeper into the Zone,
and without offering so much as a distracting commercial. Because, to my ultimate chagrin, the second boy—we'll call him Luke—wasn't
much older than the first.
My squick meter hopped up and down, squished
my stomach into a knotted mass, and shrieked for the write muse to save us. The muse, bloody bitch that she likes to be, laughed at
her host, but thankfully provided diversion by drawing our attention to my companions.
'They're having a good time,' she informed me. 'What's the matter with you, woman? Get a hold of yourself and file away notes for
later—never know when a character will insist she's in love with a much younger man.'
'One already has,' I archly replied, 'and I gave her a thirty-year-old.'
'So hang on to that,' the muse answered with disgust. 'You can do it. I know you can.'
I still didn't want to see Luke's nekkid behind any more than I wanted to see Kyle's. But I took her advice, concentrated on the details,
and made mental notes. Luke had the opposite coloring of Kyle: blond, blue-eyed, GQ handsome, and equally as hairless and smooth.
But! This kid quickly demonstrated he possessed professional seasoning. He knew how to play his audience. That being the case, the
write muse doused some of the squick meter's angst by pointing out that, indeed, he even used some of the same ploys any good actor
relies upon.
In plying my own art, I finally managed to locate my good
sense weeping in a corner and dragged it kicking and screaming back into play. I laughed along with the other women, amused by their
full-throttle participation. One closed her eyes every time Luke touched her. Another giggled non-stop. A third leapt to her feet
and danced along. There was material by the bucket-load at hand, and all I needed to do is record every iota of detail.
