I don't care how good your physique is, guys, do not ever don a G-string. Mmmmkay?
Last night three girlfriends and I saw Thunder from Down Under, a traveling version of the Vegas male review show. Think Chippendales with Aussie accents - a bunch of shaved, muscular white guys gyrating to hip hop, country, hard rock and ballads.
The guys wore pirate, gangster, gladiator, cowboy and bull-fighter costumes because that's what we women fantasize about, apparently. By the sounds of the women's screams, they know their audience.
The guys had great bodies, and two of them looked like they might really be dancers. "Oh, good, they're really going to dance," I thought at one point. "I hope they don't ruin it by taking off their clothes."
And then, with a flick of two wrists, the pants were gone revealing their tiny packages, held in place by colorful swatches of fabric. For added bonuses, the guys slid the thongs below their buttocks, eliciting ear-piercing screams from the ladies because, you should know, an exposed crack is way hotter than one covered with dental floss.
They did the best they could with a lot of horribly choreographed moves - Point to the sky! Point to the ground! Slide on your knees! Swing your shirt like a lasso in the aiiiiiyer! Hip thrust, hip thrust! Ornery smile stage right! Flex the bicep! Sliiiiiiiiiiiiiide the palm of your hand from your chest down to your woo hoo... give it a squeeeeeze!
As my mind wandered during the show, I wondered what mostly naked "costumed manly man" would get my adrenaline going if he were jumping around on stage? I came up blank. A nearly naked man prancing around on stage does not turn me on. As a matter of fact, a mostly naked man prancing around in the privacy of my bedroom would not turn me on. It would send me into convulsions of laughter.
The best part of the evening was dining and catching up with my girlfriends. I was thoroughly entertained last night, especially because I got to be with my gal pals, two of whom I haven't seen in too long.