My Personal Triumvirate

“Triumvirate” is a historical term dating from ancient Rome, and originally referred to a political regime dominated by three individuals.  That isn’t its meaning here; I use it as a connotation to three interesting and unique young men I met under the most unusual of circumstances.

They were dancers in a strip club.

Let me take a step backward.  We have here in a not-so-nice neighborhood of Detroit a club called “The Gold Coast.”  I have been there many times, and on several occasions have also taken straight friends, Lincoln included.  And at The Gold Coast there is no end to the bevy of hot, buff, and young flesh being presented around a pole, or on a bar to do calisthenics, or in the needed back room.  My last visit to The Gold Coast was actually Good Friday, 2012.  I remember it succinctly because I was there at opening, wanting to see who the first barflies were.  The bartender recognized me as a new face, and I replied, “Well, it was either come here or go to Mass.”

Good choice.

During my numerous visits to The Coast, as it’s called, I had made the acquaintance of three of the dancers due to my underwear tastes.  See, these guys didn’t just come out and shake what their Mama gave them in a pair of Hanes.  These were guys who used the pole to their advantage and who wore brands (and very well, at that) that I had never heard of.  And, of course, part of their job is to scour the floor, get guys to buy them drinks, and offer private dances.  I’m a sucker for all of those, but I also wanted to get to know these guys as individuals.  It was my own version of Magic Mike, I guess.

I made it clear to them that I knew, as far as they had to be concerned, it was business as usual.  (Find bar patron + alcohol + discussion – sexual byplay * innuendo * temperature / lack of shirt and trumping other offers = Trip to Back Room.)  And I got that.  But I also knew that, more than likely, this was their way of paying the bills, and I knew from my own experiences of working through college (not at The Coast, but still), that this can be difficult and I didn’t want them to think I was only looking at them as pieces of meat.  (Very, very attractive pieces of meat.)

And it worked.  Over the course of my visits, two years and more, I became Their Client.  Sure, I bought them drinks, and yes, we went to the Back Room numerous times for more than just a chat, and they came to realize that I wasn’t there just to be a sugar daddy.  I used their names.  I made sure I knew when they would be performing.  I always asked for permission and never assumed that anything and everything would be acceptable (because “No,” means “No,” whether in a back room or in a bed – always remember that).  And I would compliment them on their underwear and how nice they looked, because they did.  In short, I treated them like young men (young, handsome men in their underwear, I grant you, but as young men). And with their assistance and suggestions, I was able to build the underwear collection I have now.  That’s right, for them it was Business As Usual (“Here comes the guy who buys undershorts!”), and for me it was shopping and catch-up.  Win, win.

And the three of them became a team, literally.  They would know who I was and why I was there.  And they also let me know the other dancers were feeling – say, left out – of the bounty they were scoring.  (Didn’t matter, these three were the cutest ones and weren’t superficial … at least, not once we got to know each other.)  It makes me feel a little bad that I haven’t been to The Gold Coast in quite a while, but unemployment kind of takes away your disposable income.  And you can’t buy another guy’s underwear in a dark back room when you haven’t paid for your car or your insurance.

Now, since I don’t want to mention them by name (and as there is no guarantee that the names I have are even accurate), I’ll simply refer to them as “A.”, “M”, and “R”.  I don’t even know if they’re still working there, either, but if they are – I’m certainly not going to share names or the photos I do have since I want to maintain the monopoly on our relationships.  If you go to The Gold Coast, you will have a good time, regardless of which dancer comes over and sticks his a** in your face.

“A.” was the leader.  I would peg him at just twenty-one.  He had tattoos, really expressive eyes, and spiky black hair.  And when he saw that I had come in, it was a beeline to the other two to let them know to suit up.  I learned that he was a business student and that he wasn’t out to his parents, but as he and I got to talking, he would let me know about his progress in school and how he was aiming to get out of the house as soon as possible.  I could always count on “A.” to deliver, regardless of what either of us was in the market for.  “M.” was taller and thinner than “A.”, had piercings, a narrow face, and was more exuberant than his two compatriots.  He was a dental student, he said, and although he didn’t particularly like dancing, he was good at it.  I remarked to him on several occasions this was true, and I walked him through some “marketing” so that he could bigger tips from the clientele, which seemed to please him.  “R.” was the shortest and the dodgiest of the three.  He definitely had some kind of gymnastics background, of this I was certain.  All three knew how to utilize the pole fluidly, but “R.” was by far the best and from a looks perspective, also the handsomest.  He was the quietest, too, so you never quite knew what he was thinking, but when he did talk, the others would immediately stop and listen.  The only other thing I know about him is that he’s not Jewish.  (His words – and anatomy; not mine.)

I miss my Coast posse.  I’ll term them as “kids,” because they are young, and I am technically old enough to be their father, individually.  But I was glad that I got the chance to connect with them on a person-to-person basis, because I wanted them to know that not all men are out there to use them.  Sure, there is always a trade-off of goods and services in any transaction – and the four of us had that understanding – but I’m sure they looked at my “patronage” as an investment and I told them numerous times to find me if they needed help.  I told them the same thing I have told my daughter – not to let anyone use them or abuse them.  It’s too easy, in that line of work, for that to happen.  I told them that they deserved respect above all else, since what they were doing couldn’t have been easy.  And I’d like to think it made a difference, and broke the mold of the older man pursuing a younger strictly out of sexual need or lust.

Yeah, I miss them.  I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again or not, but whether they know it or not, they touched my life spiritually in addition to filling my underwear drawer.  That’s something you can’t pay for, and it’s something for which I will always be appreciative.