Stag Night

After a table dance in front of twenty people, having thrown the G-string I was wearing into the crowd, I climb down and think, “I could do this every weekend!”

Maybe an hour ago I was in the back of a minibus taxi, struggling fishnets up my legs, wondering just how confident I was with my sexuality.

It’s a common sight in Cape Town on a Saturday evening – men on the verge of marriage, dressed in women’s clothing, a beer mug handcuffed to their arm.

Strippers and strip clubs seem so 20th Century. Honestly, it’d feel like cheating to have some big-breasted Russian poking her nipples into my eyes – so it’s me dressed for success, deliberating over which bog-door to go through.

Some guys think it’s funny to grab my arse and ask for a blowjob. They get a bit freaked when I cup their nuts in my hand and tell them it’ll cost a tenner. There’s a flicker of doubt and they think maybe this is my ‘coming out’ night and not a bachelor’s party.

But after the fourth pint and a few Jagermeisters, appropriately having a Bavarian sausage platter for dinner, I forget about the pink wig and sexy nightie. Out the corner of my eye I see a table of German tourists staring at me and think, “What the fuck are they looking at?”

It’s kind of like being a moderately famous soap opera actor. Strangers ask to have their picture taken with me. Groups of girls buy me shots at the bar. It’s easy to see why some people get addicted to being the centre of attention.

At Quay Four in the Waterfront, a woman gets aggro with me for cutting in on her and some guy on the dancefloor. I think she’s just a bad sport until my mate informs me that the ‘woman’ is actually another guy in drag – the only difference being he’s not on his stag night.

Welcome to Cape Town.

Later in the night a bouncer won’t let us jump the queue at a club. I kick up a stink, and what normally would get me a black eye and maybe a broken rib gets us in.

We meet up with my fiancée, Lucy, on her hen night. She’s wearing angel wings and ‘cock-boppers’. We drunkenly relay tales from the last few hours.

I’m fat with a beard and just make a really ugly chick, but Lucy says the next morning she found me in the stockings and pink wig a strange turn-on.

Maybe I should do this every weekend.

Would You Touch My Brand New Boobs?

Standing in a luggage shop and my mate turns to me and says, “Nice fake boobs over there.”

I have a look, but can’t see who he’s talking about.

“Over there,” he insists, “Can’t you tell.”

Actually, I can’t. But it did make me wonder aloud, “Do women with breast enhancements mind men gawking at their rack?”

“Like a new pair of shoes,” matey says, “it’s flattering if one notices.”

I suppose he could be right. I once met an elderly lady, not a granny but a woman in her late forties, who, after a breast enlargement, encouraged people to “touch them, feel how firm they are!”

Many men obliged, but I thought it would be a bit weird to feel up some guy’s wife in front of him. The husband didn’t mind, though. In fact, he was standing by grinning with some kind of idiotic pride as a group groped.

I’ve always felt sympathy for very beautiful people. A lot of the time their beauty defines them, and as they get older and it inevitably crumbles their sense of self-worth falls apart too.

It is interesting to note that most cosmetic surgery practices have an in-house psychologist. This is to evaluate whether the reason behind the punter's facelift or liposuction will help with their insecurity or if there is a deeper problem.

Those with body dysmorphic disorder see themselves as fat or ugly no matter what, and will return to a surgeon again and again. The resident head-shrink is there to spot such customers and hopefully make some cash on a sideline business.

Part of the patriarchal conspiracy behind Barbie is that Ken has no junk at all. This is so that women will accept men with little or no pleasure package – merely a neat haircut, a nice wardrobe, and a chiselled chin.

Men are still sometimes insecure, because He-Man’s furry boxers clearly hid a bit of a bulge… and Skeletor was all-boner. But I have yet to encounter a man straight off the operating table extending the offer of touching his artificially-engorged cock.

Maybe it’s just the circles I move in.

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Gimp Balls 'n Girl Scouts

A friend of mine has a fetish for feet. He loves summer not because girls wear short skirts, but because their toes are on display in sandals and slops.

He once told me I had nice feet, which I’ll admit made me a bit uncomfortable. Not that I’m homophobic or he’s homosexual, but I kind of felt like my nob was hanging out.

Personally, I’m a boots man. A nice pair of knee-highs or uggs on a woman and I’m there.

And I’m pretty sure I’m not alone. Think of every porno you’ve watched – the girls always shag with their shoes on.

This is either because they don’t want to get their dirty feet on the bed linen, or that men like shoes as much as Posh Beckham does.

I think most people have some fetish that they never talk about. We, as a society, seem to think that any indication of a preference to the missionary position is perverted. Sex is probably the oldest anathema of the civilised world.

Ridiculous! It’s the one thing we all have in common – from teenagers to old codgers, rugby jocks to make-up-wearing trannys, even priests like a bit of choirboy coitus every now and again.

Sex should be something that (if you’ll excuse the bludgeoning pun) brings us together.

One of the most unmentionable – and I’d wager common – fetishes involves the Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform.

It’s what made Britney Spears so popular, but I don’t think it’s the underage chicky-boo inside that’s the harbinger of heavy-breathing – it’s the actual item of clothing itself.

My theory is that most men didn’t get that much action in their teen years due to shyness, insecurity, or just pimples and gangly legs. No matter how many women they can pull in later years that memory of the hottest girl in school spurning their advances sticks like chewed up bubblegum in the corner of their hippocampus.

It’s not sex with underage girls they want; it’s any woman in a school uniform and pigtails.

My advice to females of all consenting ages – if you can’t think of anything to get him for his birthday, head for the back-2-school section of your local Pep store.

The irony is that sex shop owners are as guilty as the pseudo-pious when it comes to this mentality of “let’s do it and say we didn’t”.

Because they think we think fornication is filthy, the manager of Adult World thinks he can get away with not employing a cleaning lady.

It’d be the very definition of a dirty job, but either that or have a strict ‘clean up after yourself’ policy in the viewing booths. Use a hanky after hanky-panky.

But every one of us is guilty by feeling shame when we imagine getting a spanking or licking off a cream bikini. By bending to the wills of society’s sanctimonious we are maybe not making it worse, but we are certainly not making it any less taboo.

So get over yourself. You’re not that sick and twisted. Tell your partner all the kinky things you want to do to them.

My bet is they want to do something twice as weird to you.

Words: Nathan Casey
Photo: Ross Hillier