A rosy-faced, good-looking male guest casually strode in with a tranny manager behind him. Thinking ahead of the latter, he selected a table halfway between the entrance and the stage and found himself sitting opposite a middle-aged blonde Caucasian woman who seemed glued to the activity on stage.
Anticipating the scripted pleasantries the manager would exchange with him, he quickly initiated some non-sense chat while gesturing for one of the waiters watching from the sidelines to take his beverage order. He knew the name of the game amongst numerous MDB (macho dancer bar) managers and the idea of flattering him or talking him into immediately getting a dancer-tablemate didn’t sit well with him. As a patron, he knew he had to call the shots and hate people imposing their likes or choices on him.
“I’ll be fine here,” he told the pesky bar executive, “and I’ll let you know if I want a dancer to join me.”
“Okay, just call on me,” muttered the fairy.
He turned away and began drinking his juice (he never drank beer for he hated its better taste). The manager rose from his seat and returned to the lobby, if lobby it was called.
I am relieved, he thought to himself.
He reviewed the people around him. They were mostly local women with a sprinkling of several East Asian ladies, who were conspicuously seated right in front of the stage. He sensed the vertically-challenged servers on his right were observing him, but he ignored their serious, if not troubled, look. He focused his attention on the strippers on stage: four buffed dancers executing dance moves despite their seemingly stiff bodies. He suspected they were trying desperately to impress the non-Philippine female patrons, hoping to cash in on their dough. These macho dancers were under the impression these women would give fat tips to Filipino male strippers. What a mentality!
Every now and then, guests erupted into loud cheers, prompted by the performers’ teasing them with their opened flies. At one point, the shouts grew louder as the strippers began taking off their tank tops one after the other. One of them appeared daring enough to remove everything he had on except his bikini which covered whatever was left of his dignity. It looked like many started to go gaga over him (or were they feigning it?) as he teased them with his fully erect cock the head of which was peering out through the side of his undie.
While the crowd nearest the stage grew excited, one patron appeared unimpressed and she was the lone white customer in the audience. Then suddenly their gaze met. He smiled. She smiled back. And almost immediately, she stood up and joined him at his table. She had overtaken him so much so that he had no chance to stand up as a sign of courtesy to a woman when she neared him. A man should rise from his seat, when a woman approaches him was his mother’s constant advice. They shook hands, taking turns introducing themselves to each other. It turned out she hailed from Miami, Florida. He, a Pacific islander, on the other hand, was just passing through the archipelago and decided to spend a few nights in the island nation’s metropolitan capital. He offered to buy her a drink; she declined but thanked him for his thoughtfulness. She had had enough, she told him.
“Actually, I’m about to leave,” she told him, “but seeing you all alone at your table, I thought you needed some company.”
“Is that so?” he remarked a bit surprised. A quick check on the time on his mobile phone revealed it was almost midnight.
“I’ve been here since 8 or 9 and all I’ve seen were small dicks,” she grumbled, rolling her eyes in disbelief. Which remark caused both to laugh which caught the attention of the waiters standing nearby.
“Why do Filipino men have small dicks?” she asked wondering why they were not as “endowed” as the white men.
“At least mine is bigger than theirs,” he joked.
“Lucky you, unlike these Filipino men,” she blurted out.
“Has it something to do with their race?” he countered as he requested the assigned waiter for yet another drink.
“Well, I don’t know,” she sighed apparently disappointed at the “average sized-cocks” she had seen that entire evening.
“My God, they’re damn small!” she growled, kind of cursing those Asian strippers on stage.
It was at this point that she got up and bade him good-bye. “I hope you’ll have a good time,” were her parting words as she darted for the door.
“I hope so,” he replied looking at her direction. She smiled at him. “Take care of yourself,” he shouted.
She looked at him one last time and quipped: “Thanks, you too.” Then she disappeared.
“My god, they are damn small!” seemed to intrigue him for a moment. Does size really matter?
Ignoring the thought for the time being, he enjoyed himself, later getting a cute stripper to join him until mid-dawn.
Does size really matter? Share your thoughts.