Where’s the Male Stripper?

Who knew?

Here Come the Pecs

My friend Glinda turns forty mumble mumble mumble this month.  

I went to a morning surprise birthday party for her at my friend Patty’s house in Bel Air.  

Here’s Patty in a word … STRIPPER.

Okay, five words. A MALE STRIPPER NAMED GERALDO

She’d told Glinda we were all going to meet at her house to go hiking. Then Glinda would arrive in hiking gear and SURPRISE!! all of her friends would be there with mimosas, lox, bagels, shmeary stuff and finally BING BONG … the doorbell would ring.

At 9:30 a.m.

This is what it’s come to. Several of the formerly hottest women on the freakin’ planet … (Steve Perry of Journey tried to deflower Shirley and claim her maidenhead when she was 18. He was unsuccessful) … are going to stuff dollars down a jock strap while their children learn vulgar fractions at school.

We ate, drank, talked, laughed.

Glinda didn’t know about the stripper, but the rest of us started to get impatient. That bastard Geraldo was late. Maybe he had to iron his policeman costume?

Impatience turned to aggression.

Experimental college-lesbian stories began to fly. We were like inmates who’d been without conjugal visits for a year. We started comparing chest size and pumping iron.

The Phone Rings.

No one moves. We all know what it means. It’s the phone. Not the doorbell. Geraldo’s obviously M.I.A.  Patty’s face confirms the worst as she says …

“You woke up with the shingles? What kind of excuse is that? That’s like saying just because you have hemorrhoids you can’t push a baby out of your vagina! You get the job done! YOU GET THE JOB DONE! … (she looks up at us) … Geraldo hung up on me.”

The festivity in the air deflated like yesterday’s balloon.

Oh we tried to revivify the setting. We dropped raspberries in our champagne at 9:45 a.m. (it’s 7 p.m. in Minsk!)

We discussed disastrous consequences with sex toys that’d make Richard Gere flinch. We half-heartedly flashed our muffin tops at each other.

All to no avail. We finished our shmeary lox, put our mimosas in a paper bag for the drive home. Have a lovely weekend and I look forward to seeing you back here on MONDAY!

Geraldo, look at the eager anticipation you destroyed …

We ferried our dollars in condoms we’d swallowed before we left home to hide the evidence from our husbands.

15 thoughts on “Where’s the Male Stripper?”

  1. The riskiest my parties ever get is muffin-top flashing and discussion of what bras we like (along with asking opinions of the closest male about what they like in Victoria’s Secret catalog.
    I need to step it up a notch and get some raspberries.

  2. LMAO, you amateurs. I’m with ghfool- You need their 1800 number on speed dail. You could have had a bus full in 10 minutes. However, I have a funny feeling Geraldo not showing saved you wild ladies from a serious hangover the next morning

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