Decidedly Obscure Human Complaints.

… is synonymous with trauma.

The corner of queer-ville I’ve resided in for these past 29 years has not been the host of many weddings. I think a total of… oh, three? None of which included my being invited to a bachelorette party - until Friday night.

My adorable friend, Nicole, recently took a trip to New York to marry her same-sex partner. They had a ceremony shindig there. Then another shindig of some romantic sort in Phoenix with family. And then a reception with friends here last night, in Utah.

But, before said reception, a bachelorette party was planned for Nicole. A bachelorette party including her male + female bridesmaids, queers galore with oh, maybe two heterosexual-identified? Anyway, this party included a male stripper - in a police outfit which very swiftly became a tiny thong g-string situation. Given the fact that Nicole is as queer as they come, watching her sweat and grimace under the wrath of a grinding male stripper had me smiling, laughing and hooting for an hour straight. My throat and face still hurt (which could also be partially attributed to waking up on the slightly sick side of the coughy phlegmy bed).

The fun and games didn’t last forever. As the whirlwind of male strippage ensued and he had people laying on their backs beneath him with strawberries in mouths and whipped cream (vegan, of course), someone started to chant my name. “Dexter! Dexter!”. Nicole hopped on the band wagon fast, and next thing I knew there I was on my back on the hard, wooden floor with a strawberry in my mouth.

Now here’s the thing about laying on a hard, wooden floor beneath a male stripper in a g-string with a strawberry in my mouth.

I have never, not once, in my entire life, been face-to-one-eyed-face with a penis. I’ve seen them in photos. I’ve seen them in videos. I’ve seen them mushed up in tight pants. But full frontal? Never. Back in my lesbi days, my peen anxiety could just be shrugged off as, “Oh, she’s gay. Peens are gross to her.” And the risk of peen wasn’t very high, as I traveled around in woman-dominated spaces (bathrooms, locker rooms, bed rooms, etc.). But now? My peen alert system is on overdrive. There have been close encounters, but it hasn’t happened.

And when I heard there’d be a male stripper? I thought, at last! I might see a fo’ real peen in fo’ real life! And then thought, wait a minute. What if it super grosses me out? And I end up looking like a dude who presumably has seen a penis since I presumably have a massive cis (i.e. cisgender) peen and therefore, being grossed out by another peen looks mega homophobic instead of looking like a dude who doesn’t have a cis peen and is really just grossed out by cis peens more similar to Nicole than to a homophobic cis dude?

Either way, I went for it. Even though it was sheathed in g-string, it was going to be the closest I’ve ever been to one. Or, as it turned out, as close as my face has ever been to one. As I laid there with the strawberry in my mouth and the stripper crouched over me pushing the whipped cream button - it exploded. All over my face. Three times. Given the whipped cream fail, for some reason this led to seeing it, sheathed in cloth, dangling above me as he squat closer… closer… booty shaking, jiggling, closer… almost against my nose… it was all a blur from there. I recall the jiggling, the smell, the wagging and my face turned, my eyes closed, and next thing I knew the strawberry was being bit from my mouth and I swallowed.

Apparently I was beat red. It was photographed and video taped and shown to my mother at last night’s reception. More than once. By more than one person. She enjoyed it.

If this ends up on youtube, I’ll reluctantly post it here. And never watch it.

Or maybe I will.

After a week or two.

When the trauma has subsided.

Poor cispeen.

As terrifying as the prospect was, I was slightly disappointed that he didn’t end up nude. So close. No cigar.