A birthday stripped bare

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Last week I turned 21. Whooooo. Go me!

I really don’t mean to come across as shallow and materialistic but I’m all about the presents, so I got pretty excited when I was told that I was in for a treat.

“Oooooh… I LOVE surprises!”

The great thing about friends is that they have this knack of knowing exactly what you want.  It must have been a really easy decision for them…

“So, what do you reckon we should get the girl-with-the-personal-space-issues?”

“Uh… I don’t know, a male stripper maybe?”

Great idea.

I probably should have seen it coming when the mastermind behind this operation bought me a calendar of ‘Bronzed Aussie Boys’ for Christmas.  Sounds great, right?  Trust me when I tell you that the photographer walked along the beach picking out the most oiled-up, horrific short-wearing creeps Australia has to offer – and people tend to not believe my spiel about irony when they see it which is odd.

Sorry, I diverged. Let’s get back to the… uh… point. Did I mention they ordered me a STRIPPER?

His stage name is Nick Sexecute (he could probably work on that if I’m honest) and, according to the contract, full-blown nudity was not supposed to be on the cards.  I’d quite like to have a look at this so-called contract though because I feel that the small-print may have been slightly over-looked.  Either that or he should probably get his Tarzan-esque loincloth repaired.

It took me quite a while to even realise it was all happening; I was still gormlessly asking, “Why’s Joe dressed up?” when it struck me that ‘Joe’ was looking a little older and more sinister than usual.  Please don’t take this the wrong way, Joe, but I’m actually so relieved it didn’t turn out to be you – I think a dance like that from you would have really tested our friendship.

The FULL show would not have been an issue had he not kicked things off by dry-humping my face – quite literally a mind-fuck. Weirdly enough though, the only two things I could really think about throughout the ordeal were that he should probably get different shoes (nobody loves a stripper in black Nikes), and ‘Oh my god, I’m friends with my mum on Facebook…’

But don’t worry Mum; it’s all completely legit.  He even has a book to his name; it’s called ‘Roadwarrior: Confessions of a Male Stripper’ (Only two left in stock on Amazon so get on that.) And if my little show was anything to go by, ‘Confessions’ is a very apt description of it.

What was my solace in this time of hardship, I hear you ask?  Definitely the signed poster; there’s a picture of him (naked and in all his glory, obviously) with a caption below that reads:

‘Expand Your Mind – Study Something HARD’

I guess this is Oxford after all.

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