Concerns Concerning Dancing Bear
Dancing Bear is an exotic dancing franchise for bachelorette parties, birthdays, and other exclusive “girl’s night out” events, during which the aforementioned mascot strips naked and erotically dances; though it doesn’t end there, and I’m not talking about a mere lap dance, playful dick-tap to the forehead, or earnest “reach around.” These parties incur the indiscretions of full on fellatio and, sometimes, its terminate gesture the facial. Some of the more coy women have their friend next to them hold up a towel to block the view from others, a sort of prelude to the towel’s ultimate capacity. The bear, of course, is well endowed, STD free (one hopes and presumes), and of quality physical stature.
This is all fun, but I wonder about the fiance, perhaps at his own bachelor party, and the parameters of his transgression. If one is to apply a sense of equality, if a woman found out that her fiancé came on the face of an exotic dancer or escort, she would be very distraught, for a facial, while not exactly romantic, is a pretty “intimate” act of sex. A man is lucky to grab some tits, in the brief moments the bodyguard isn’t looking. The bachelor party is laden with so many rules, imposed both at home and by the erotic dancing agency. You can’t touch them, lest you be touched by a woman’s smack or bodyguard’s fist. But suck cock all you want. The women have become crazier than the men.
Another concern I have is the vicinity of food to flying cum. The majority of these Dancing Bear parties are catered banquet-style, with entrees and drinks dotting each round table like the mark of hours barely noticed and never regained. The facials take place sometimes on stage, but usually the ejaculate instigator/recipient is seated at her table. These performers, in their late-20s to early-30s, their vas deferens’ taut like a stallion’s, are both capable and likely to expel semen at a force similar to the result of stepping on a packet of mustard; this is my way of evoking the trail of flying spunk. And should this wad land 3-4 ft. across the table on a diligently cooked salmon, then, well, I really don’t know what to say here, besides I hope the dill balances it out.
The erect fulcrum of these nights is not wiped down in between patrons, resulting in an aggregate of saliva and pre-cum manifest as a pasty and somewhat foamy substance, noticed if you care (as I do) enough to notice. The women, besides drunk-blowing-stranger-dick, seem innocently “vanilla” in the sense that they don’t know how to deep throat. I’ve seen a handful of clips, expectedly waiting for an artisan muse to come along and blow the competition out of the water, but the blowjobs are all rather amateur (distracted giggles, erratic non-rhythmic head bobbing, over use of hands) which all point to the sad truth here: these women are not porn actors. They are real people with real men waiting at home for them. Engagements and hearts are being broken.
There is no double standard. If men engaged in the act of which their female counterparts have then the recipient, they would be in deep shit, and I’m not talking about anal. I’m semi-inclined, yet weary, to talk about feminism and the sexual empowerment of women, because that would be like bringing Derrida to the zoo. You can’t talk your way out of the animal kingdom. The odd thing is the resultant porn is meant for men, so whose fantasy is this? Is cheating just a sexual act, or does it require some emotional betrayal, some cognizance of cruelty imparted by the cheater? And how and when do these things intersect? I don’t know or want to know the answer. A million years of evolution and we’re still lapping at one another between the legs, our partners dripping with the bliss we duly administered, calling out to God in the church of squirt.
Call me old fashioned. If I ever get engaged again, I don’t want my fiancé taking a hot wad of spunk all over her face. Seems natural to me.
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It started with a right swipe, a little green heart. Tinder of course.
Though I acknowledge and appreciate the differences in human experiences, and while your heartbreak is (and always will be) uniquely and completely your own, I must urge you to consider that I have been where you are.
With his hat cocked back, body tilted away from his cane, and right forefinger pointing directly at his audience, Joseph Ducreux commands the attention of those viewing his self-portrait.
I was born in 1990; he was born in 1973. I’m 23; he just turned 40.