brotherly, love

Alert Reader and Fraternity Brother Scoop just sent me a note that he and some friends were looking over photos from his wedding weekend, and he shared "the story."  This was in the mid-90s.  He and Meg got married in Greenville, South Carolina, and the fraternity brothers had a relatively quiet bachelor drunk fest with the groom in the hotel the night before the wedding.  Down the hall, another much more rowdy bachelor party was taking place.  I first met them by following the music down the hall and was invited in.  Later, these guys came by our room asking if they could get some beer as they had run out, and we were happy to pool our cases of canned beer with their KFC and other food you think is amazingly awesome when you're hammered.

We were in our mid-20s at this point, and still perhaps the whitest guys you'd ever meet.  And these guys were perhaps the blackest.  We got along really well actually.  As drunk men around naked women tend to.

One of the groomsmen of the other wedding party owned a strip club, and had brought over some of his girls to dance, strip and do... other things... for his boys.  We were invited to enjoy ourselves as well.

Scoop calls this "the black cootchie story." Which I may have coined at the time come to think of it. Scoop clarifies: "I actually wasn't in the room with you. Katy went with you. My second-hand account is based on the story you related upon your return. Also, it is the "black coochie story" because the guys came into our room and announced "who wants to see some black coochie?"

Now, I had finally come out at this point but was still generally the only gay guy among my friends and at any given party.  I thought coming out would have put an end to awkward lap dances, but not so much.  And being in rural South Carolina in a room full of big macho black dudes I didn't know was not going to be my next debut.  Polite declinations of lap dances and other offers only looked like shyness, which of course encouraged the enthusiasm of those offering me said services.

Ultimately I said thank you and took a seat in one of the cushioned arm chairs as a buxom black woman in knee-high white go-go boots and nothing else rhythmically sashayed her unveiled Petula mere inches from my face.  First of all, I thought it was rude of me not to be visibly aroused when she would check my state with her eyes and her hands, but there was really nothing I could do about that.  Second, I had zero confidence in my ability to feign interest with the rest of my body—especially my face, as my reaction to her kootchie close-up must have been something like Indiana Jones trying not to look into the Arc of the Covenant lest his soul be consumed by demons.

Sure, I love me a motorboat as much as the next guy, but I knew I was not reacting as a typical red-blooded American male would in this situation.

In my desperation, I had to take the stripper into my confidence and come out quietly in her ear as she offered me her amples. I had completely forgotten this part of the story until Scoop reminded me this morning.  Scoop has the dialog down:

You:  Um...I'm gay.
Her:   No you're not.
You:  Actually, yes, I am.
Her:   Prove it.
You:  Okay (with a flourish of the hand) I love those boots.
Her:  Oh my god! You are gay!

She was really sweet truthfully, and told me she understood and had a gay cousin and said she'd keep my cover.  Although she made a scene and finished the dance as if I were The Man, I think the other guys may have caught on when I spent most of my time later looking her in the eyes and talking to her as if she were a person.

Love love love to Scoop and his bride Meg.  Thanks for the Mammaries.