Naked Men

For an excuse to go stare at the naked dancing men I convinced myself, in the name of journalism, I should cover the all male reviews.

These establishments are gathered near the center of Duval, corner of Petronia Street, an oasis within an oasis. Outside one bar drag queens stand tall in massive wigs and platform shoes in which they prance and cheerfully amiably wittily harangue passersby. They are art installations on heels, creativity personified. I was headed for the bar across the way. Five bucks to get in. I paid a bald man in a tank top and thick gold chains. On a wall was a poster, a photo of a man dancing, in profile, in black and white, with heavy shadows playing on a generous rump, and ‘Siberian Lynx’ beneath. I took a deep breath and pressed against the turnstile of Fate into a multitude of chattering drinking sweating humans. I was in a dim room filled by a stratum of smells, two bars and a stage in the back, and strobe lights clawing through the darkness, and naked men everywhere.


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