One other theorem was put forth that evening: Up until the '50s, women didn't traditionally or habitually shave their legs. It worked its way into society because men sent overseas for World War I and II came to like the shaved legs of prostitutes, who maintained that look to reduce the occurrence of lice.
When it comes to hairy situations, I know a lot about getting myself into them. Not so much about the hairless ones, so this was a really enlightening conversation. You're probably wondering, however, why body hair is on my mind so much this week. No, it's not because I'm balding. Or wearing a thong. Not this time. It's because Kuldell, former Music Editor Craig Seymour and I went to see the hairless chest and slick music of Junior Vasquez, brought by promoters In Like Flynn to Compound on Sat., April 23. Even with the night's brief tsunami, the skirts and thongs were out. I'm about 5-foot-7, and on a good day, that places me at eye level with the nipples of a room full of chiseled, shirtless men, and not a chest in sight that night had to worry about lice.
Well-groomed, smooth, but undistinguished - that was the look and sound of the night. Like the white noise of New York traffic, my gaydar was going off so constantly it became little more than a familiar hum. I couldn't tell the difference between metrosexual and gay to save my life that night. They probably couldn't, either. All I knew is that with my beard, I was a bear cub compared to the rest of the room's sleek, tanned twinks. And the progressive house music was much the same: It seemed poised to strike at times, but then would descend into generic trance. Four out of five dentists agree: Drilling is not always pleasant.
That isn't to say there was no excitement in the crowd, at least for us. I ran into one familiar face, which wasn't even familiar at first: The 7-foot-tall Marie Antoinette-in-Wonderland turned out to be Jason Jupiter, who I briefly reminisced with about when drag queens were king, and how a friend of his once put Nikki Taylor in her place - behind the city's queens - in the Karma bathroom line.
It's always the people who make the scene - like Nipple Man, an older guy on the speaker box facing the DJ booth. Reliving his disco deca-dance, he writhed and rubbed his nipple through his shirt like it was Aladdin's lamp and he was wishing to join Ali Baba's 40 thieves in plundering booty. Over in VIP, a couple of crackers square-danced enthusiastically, letting us imagine what George and Laura Bush looked like in their coked-up clubbing days. To their side, extras from "The L-Word" were grinding next to a dude that looked like the lead singer from Creed.
It's time to take a moment out and issue a cautionary tale, however. Whether breeders or buff bois, if a man who can do little more than grind into your stomach approaches, do not go home with him. The way a man dances is how he fucks. So in my professional opinion, after watching the Compound crowd for more than an hour, I can say that, yes, a bunch of you were gonna end up fucked that evening. But not in the way you imagined. Even if I was in South Beach or the Meatpacking District, instead of a club (hello, Compound) trying to be both, no number of $13 martinis or $8-a-pack cigarettes can make up for a lousy lay. A man who can't dance leaves you wondering, "Did I suffer through waxing off all my body hair for this?"
Keep one RedEye open. And send all comments, questions, observations and invitations to firstname.lastname@example.org.
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