I spent last Saturday at two ‘all-female’ gatherings that could not have been more different. The first was a coffee morning at my mother-in-law’s held to introduce Calypso to various relatives in one fell swoop and therefore avoid a succession of weekend visits from now until Christmas. Despite not particularly looking forward to it, I had a wonderful time. In a scene that could quite easily have been lifted from a clichéd Mediterranean vignette, I found myself sitting on a veranda with a group of 30 or so other women that spanned three generations, surrounded by olive trees while children of various ages played in the background. The ubiquitous assortment of delicious homemade cakes, pies and breads only added to the rather idyllic setting.
The evening was spent at a friend’s hen night and despite being Cypriot, her koumera had planned a traditional affair replete with a stripper – more of him later – as well as the requisite plethora of plastic willies. Oh what fun. We all converged in the garden of someone’s house and waited for the bride-to-be, while drinking wine from willy-shaped straws. Our friend arrived, and, within minutes any vestige of dignity – not to mention natural fibre – was stripped from her as her clothes were removed and replaced with a saucy French maid’s outfit. I say ‘saucy’ but am not convinced any outfit that could ignite at the merest hint of a post-coital cigarette could ever be deemed sexy. Her look was accessorised with – yes, you guessed it – more plastic willies. A willy-shaped whistle was draped around her neck (who makes these things? If ever you are having a bad day, just tell yourself it could be worse. You could be working in a factory making willy-whistles), a dildo was placed in her hand and voila! Cinderella was ready for the ball (insert own ‘balls’ joke here). A cake was then produced, the top of which was adorned with… go on. Have a wild stab in the dark. Yup. Another plastic willy. Once we had all had our fair share of rubber members an announcement was made. The stripper was on his way but under no circumstances were we to take any photographs or video and if we were to bump into him in the street after the night’s proceedings were not to say hello to him. What???
I’ve never seen a male stripper before and it’s not something I’ve ever thought about but if I had I’m sure I would have pictured something a little different to what I saw on Saturday. For a start, I would not have pictured someone who looked like a bank clerk. I also would not have pictured someone who had as much natural rhythm and sexual energy as a table leg. Goodness me it was painful. To make matters worse, he looked as if he would rather be anywhere else but at a hen night and as he tiptoed uncertainly towards the throng of waiting women, appeared as out of place as a polar bear in the Sahara. A shy, uncomfortable stripper who can’t dance? Could it get any worse? Oh yes, I’m afraid it can. He also appeared to suffer from OCD. As he shuffled unsurely from side to side, he took his shoes off and lined them up neatly in front of the hen. He then carefully removed his socks, rolled each one into a little ball and placed them inside his shoes. In order to take off his trousers he had to lean in a rather ungainly fashion on the chair that the hen was sitting on and slowly, excruciatingly, peeled them off to reveal quite the most unedifying little posing pouch. He then proceeded to fold his trousers and place them gently next to his shoes. I’m sure if he could have, he would have brought a Corgi trouser press with him. Once the final garment (bar the pouch – thank God!) had been removed and neatly folded it was time to get sexy. The lucky hen was about to have a lap dance. But wait! First, he had to retrieve the towel he had brought with him and place it neatly on the ground so his knees would not have to touch the earth. And just when we thought the show was over and that he had given us all he could muster and all we could bear, out came a can of whipped cream. He may have had issues with rumpled clothes and dirt but when it came to whipped cream there were no holds barred. Mmmm. Whipped cream rubbed into sweaty skin. Just the thing for a balmy evening. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the koumera brought out the willy-cake. The show was over and it was time to eat chocolate sponge.
Clearly he didn’t have a double booking that night as he was in no rush to leave. We were then treated to the rather wretched sight of a forlorn stripper sitting in the middle of a garden, all by himself, wearing nothing but a thong and munching willy-cake. Eventually someone went over to keep him company and he ended up staying for the duration of the party, hovering around the buffet table, lamenting over the fact that all he wants is to settle down and have children. It was somewhat surreal – not to mention a little off-putting – to glance over at the food and be greeted by the sight of naked buttocks smeared with curdling cream.
Within one day I had been transported from Mediterranean utopia to British dystopia.
