The first thing I notice as I peek through the glass lobby door of the evening’s show venue is the lily-white skin of a woman’s bare derièrre. She has her back to me and is chatting up one of the guest in the lobby ... Okay, she is wearing a teeny-tiny thong.
Upon entering the lobby I begin to wonder, why did the whiteness of the lobby gal’s exposed rear stand out more than her attire, or lack thereof? I give my head a proverbial shake and remember that we are attending an "erotic" show, the invitation to which I had gleefully accepted from my Russian girlfriend. The promise of adventure had been too tempting to resist.
Additional scantily clad women and men mingle so much about as we enter the little theatre, that I am unsure who is part of the cast or the audience. Did I overdress, literally?
The realization creeps in that this is an audience participation show. Dear God ... My mind racing, I hastily paste a broad, nervous grin across my face like everyone else in the joint, pretending that everything’s perfectly fine. What else am I to do?
For some unexplainable reason I’m glad I remembered to shave my legs. Unlike the time I was T-boned by an oncoming Mercedes while flying though a red light on my 10-speed. Yes, that was before there were mountain bikes. I’d silently cursed myself for not having shaved my legs that day, the paramedics were really, really cute, you see.
Funny where one’s mind goes during unusual situations. Kind of like spotting the snow-white butt before realizing that the state of undress was totally out of context in a public place.
As we settle into large cushions arranged on the floor by the stage to watch the show, my date casually informs me that earlier he’d googled the event reviews and read that one could expect to get a spanking during the performance. “Like hell!” I exclaim defensively. “If anyone so much as thinks they can put me over their knee someone's going to get clocked!” Bad childhood memories, I suppose.
I admit, while watching the various acts, I amusedly observe my man soaking it all in, out of the corner of my eye, he’s pretending not to drool. Taking pity on him, I squeeze his hand and with a smile and nod, I silently give him permission to drool away. It’s okay, this is an erotic show and after all, it is just that, a show.
To my relief the evening turns out to be disarmingly entertaining and artistic, sans spanking, the preliminary mingling being a harmless little teaser to warm up the audience. There is some total nudity but nothing crosses that fine line between erotic and pornographic. Après-show we are all up dancing with the performers and having a grand ole’ time.
Who knew I’d be okay with my date dancing unabashedly with another woman wearing nothing but scanty skivvies?
Oddly, I’m more at ease with that little scenario than finding out he’s hanging out with an ex-lover. Knowing my man talks to an ex-girlfriend once in a blue moon seems harmless, have to admit it would not at all sit well with me were he to hang out with her or perhaps invite her along for cocktails with us. No thanks. Up there with the spanking thoughts.
You see, I’ve been on both sides of the coin. I’ve experienced the sticky ex-wife hanging around, my protests were dismissed by my then partner as being over-reactive, jealous and even insecure.
On the flip side, I’ve been that ex-girlfriend invited over for dinner. Of course there is something dangerously delicious about that "been there, done him" familiarity, knowing you've temporarily got the upper hand. But after having had the pump on the other foot, I could all too easily relate. It’s rather tedious having to pee in every corner like a tomcat to mark one’s territory.
I felt no satisfaction in watching my ex’s new belle squirming in her seat and henceforth vowed that I would give a respectably wide berth to my successors.
No matter how you slice it, feeling uncomfortable about your man’s ex hanging around is neither jealous nor insecure. Keeping an ex in the wings is plain old not okay.
A Ménage à Trois can be fun, I’m sure, but three is a crowd.