A recent story about a male stripper performing at a nursing home made me smile, then pause.
Am I the only one whose excitement emanates more from within?
I'm no "poker face." When I'm enthralled and engaged, it is blatantly obvious: My energy level is high and I feel intoxicated without taking
alcohol or any substance. This is usually because those around me lift me up by their pure energy, love and respect. Some refer to this as being "empathic," and I am hard-pressed to disagree.
For the most part, I abhor the concept of strippers—male or
female. To me, it is nether stimulating,
nor enticing. I find myself way too embarrassed for the performer to enjoy their
efforts. I know he's not turned on by me, we are unlikely to end up in the
sack, and everything he does is part of his act—his way of making a living. Therefore
I pass on such displays whenever possible.
I have never completely understood the "stripper thing"
overall. Of course, I understand that men in particular tend to be visual beings more scintillated by
a woman throwing herself on him, gyrating accordingly. It apparently makes him
feel special. The fantasy removes him from his often mundane routine. Except he's paying quite the premium for the display. (Some, far higher prices than they—or those they love—could ever have imagined.)
How little one must think of himself to believe he has
nothing to attract a woman except money in his pocket. Money he can often
ill-afford—and the dancer is very eager to collect.
I don't believe I'm repressed or reluctant to let loose. In
my younger days I spent many hours on the dance floor, letting my freak flag
fly, letting each beat of the music filter through my body in movement and
rhythm. To me, that is freedom; that is exciting.
Maybe it's just another sign that I'm more of a "doer" than a "watcher."
Maybe it's just another sign that I'm more of a "doer" than a "watcher."
