The Stripper Party Unzipped Me

Chronicle of an Open Marriage #16

I was super nervous the night before and had been anxious for weeks. I was putting together my costume, practicing my dance, worrying that my older body and person would not be truly welcome at this party of 30-somethings. Would I be seen as ridiculous? Sad? Weak? Nope! The row of shining faces beaming gloriously at me from the audience will stay with me for the rest of this delicious, delectable life.

My own performance

At home before the party, I gathered my things: sleeping bag and pillow (I wouldn’t be driving home drunk in the dark), a heavy scarf (the stage would be outside, in their backyard, and I might get cold), a paper bag containing all the elements of my costume (black fishnet bodystocking, red sparkly dress with a zipper over the butt, ankle-high black boots with a furry rim, a red scarf, a necklace of chains, a magic wand, red lipstick, and a black cowboy hat). Another little bag with fresh clothes for the following day. Water. Coffee. Directions. I’d never been to Bethany’s house before…

My husband lay on the couch watching me gather my things. He didn’t look enthused. Then again, that’s his usual countenance. And he’d been invited to come, but declined the invitation, since all attendees to this party have to put on a performance, and he’s not up for that.

I kissed him goodbye. “Wish me luck!” And was off.

The drive over took about an hour through beautiful landscape. I listened to my song over and over, reminding myself at which point I would discard which item. It was Jon Batiste’s song “Freedom,” which is impossible to sit still for: a joyous, uplifting, booty-shaking great song. The music video for it won first place at the Emmys this year.

When I move my body just like this I don’t know why but I feel like Freedom (take red scarf off my shoulders and swing it around my head like a lasso) I hear a song that takes me back and I let go (throw the scarf down on the ground super hard!) with so much Freedom. Free to live! I’ma get! Cause it’s my freedom…

The chain necklace gets thrown down at the same place in a subsequent chorus. I throw it down hard! Then the top of my dress gets untied and comes down to expose my naked breasts beneath the fishnet bodystocking when Jon sings If someone’s around, go on then let them look.

The mood is defiant. I’m on fire!

And as it turned out, the stage wasn’t completely enclosed in a tent, as I had imagined it would be, so we didn’t have the safety of knowing it was just our little group of dancing fools watching. Neighbors could peer through their windows, or peek over their fences if they were so inclined. So at that particular moment in the dance, I indicated the houses behind and around me when I let down my dress and sung out “if someone’s around, let them look!”

Then comes an interlude when I bless the audience. I have a magic wand I fashioned myself strapped via red ribbon around my hips like a holster. I pull it out of its holster and tap these lovely beings on the head from a distance, and sweep it over the whole lot of them and around the yard, wrapping us all in a big circle of magic. It feels like such a healing gift of love. To them. To me. To the black night and cool air and reverberating music.

’Cause when I look up to the stars (stars) I know exactly who we are (oh) ’Cause then I see you shine You’re shinin’, you’re shinin’, oh

That’s followed by a dance floor section. People in the video are shaking their asses. I kick off one shoe. Then the other. I had left them unzipped at the back for easy flinging. Then I turn around and slowly unzip that little red dress to let my butt out. And here’s the thing about that…

Before the performance, when I was up in the dressing room (which didn’t have a door, by the way, and one extremely handsome man, in particular, kept walking by and peeking in at me while I was changing), I found to my horror that my bodystocking was not in my costume bag. How could that have happened!?!? It was a horrible disaster! I could NOT perform without it. I wasn’t prepared to go fully nude.

I had asked to go first, so I could get my performance over with and relax and enjoy the rest of the show. People were partying and milling about since the show hadn’t begun yet. I shouted out the window for Bethany to come help me. I was in a panic. I called and called, but she didn’t hear me. Other kind women tried to help me but it wasn’t their home and they didn’t know where things were. So I threw on a wrap and went downstairs in a tizzy. I located Bethany and brought her back up to the dressing room. “You have to help me!!!”

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I have a lot of those,” she soothed me. But the first one I tried on covered almost nothing, and was ripped to shreds. And the next one covered far less than the one I’d planned to bring.

For my own body stocking, I had sewn up the crotch hole. Also, there were designs over the pubic area and breasts which made it much less revealing. Bethany’s, on the other hand, had my butt fully out between two pieces. It was just a top, with NO design over the breast area, a completely see-through fishnet, then the middle area was entirely missing. The top, which ended at the belly, connected with lacy straps to stockings that covered the legs.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “I can’t wear this!”

“You can wear it. You look great in it.”

“But what about my butt?!?! Does my butt look okay?”

“You’re 67 years old!” she shouted at me (and continued to shout at the party all night, to my half-amused, half-horrified chagrin.) “Don’t worry about it!”

“I still want my butt to look good, god damn it, Bethany!!!”

I told her I needed some underwear, and she handed me a hot pink thong that covered the pubic area but not my big, bodacious butt. I decided that would have to do and that I was ready, once I got the rest of my costume on.

Then here comes that extraordinarily handsome young man who’d been peeking in at me earlier to escort me down to the stage. He puts his arm out for me to hang onto, like a starlet. And I blush, and grab his firm arm.

I’ve told the DJ, whose stage name is Killer, to announce me as Panic Pixie Cowgirl. And he does. And I’m on.

The stage in the backyard is set up like a casbah. There are rugs all over the ground, with couches and chairs on top of them arranged in a U. There are three walls, hanging with hides and fur and soft blankets, and a roof made of the same soft and interesting materials. Colored lights are strung about. There’s a big coffee table in the middle. The DJ table is on one side, with a panel and plugs and speakers, etc. And then on the missing wall area astroturf is laid down to create the stage which is up against the wall of the neighbor’s garage. There are arty things all around the stage and throughout the house. There’s a big, white deer sculpture behind me. They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make this a fun and wonderful performance space. Many of their friends are coming from far, far away to participate. The audience is gathered under blankets on the couches and chairs.

Bethany has warned the neighbors beforehand not to call the police. She does this twice a year, she says — has a big, wild, loud party — and the neighborhood is cool with it. Probably, on this particular night, they’re actually glad to live next door because when they look out their windows they can clearly see all the gorgeous men and women bumping and stripping to music on the lawn.

So back to the dance…

I turn around during the dance floor section, and slowly, slowly, ever so enticingly take down the zipper in the back of my dress. Then it’s undone. I rip the dress off and throw it down on the ground, hard, like I’ve done with all the other pieces of my costume. There is hooting and hollering and shining, shining faces and glorious smiles in the audience which erupts into big applause. Then Killer comes out and drops to his knees and cups my butt while I’m dancing during the final chorus. And Bethany calls out Security! Security!

That’s a thing they do, I see later. Someone runs out to touch the dancers because they are so f*cking hot and amazing and delectable and then someone else shouts Security! Security! to drag the fan off.

During the final chorus, I throw down my red ribbon holster and my black cowboy hat. And then it is over, and people are applauding wildly, and I’m full of joyful adrenaline and happiness as I quickly gather up all the items I’ve discarded and go back upstairs to put on my regular clothes.

The rest of the party

When I settled into the audience under a blanket I was treated to the most amazing and wonderful performances by the rest of the party-goers. Each of the women was beautiful beyond compare, with their smooth skin and pert breasts, and small, rounded bottoms. And they could dance. Oh, could they! They twerked. They shimmied. They slid up and down a tent pole. They played to the adoring crowd, and blessed us, and filled us with sweet delight.

But the men! They were the real revelation. Two cowboys cavorting in chaps and silky little leopard print underpants, rubbing their butts together, taking off shirts to show their smooth chests and muscled abs, riding the paper mache deer sculpture until it broke down beneath the weight of their gleeful enthusiasm. Touching each other and all of us with their big love and stunning masculine beauty and shape.

Three men in black came out in suits and sunglasses and button-down white shirts and then took them off with alacrity and powerful masculine energy. Swinging them, flinging them down, shaking their hips and asses. The crowd went insane!

It wasn’t all supercharged sexual energy, though. One captivating performance was more like an arty theater piece, as the man crawled around under a sheepskin like an animal, and the woman, breasts somehow disturbingly exposed through jagged holes cut out of her bodystocking, called him over to stand up next to her where they embraced.

When all the performances were over we went into the house to dance and continue the party. Many of the young people took Ecstasy. Bethany had told me in advance that there would be spanking, and I said I could deal with that, might even get into it, and admitted that I had a spanking fetish. So naturally, Killer asked me if I wanted to be spanked. He showed me a bag of wooden paddles. He described the technique. People were dancing around, not really paying attention, and the music was loud. There were colorful moving lights being projected on the ceiling and walls. It was dark and raucous. But no, I didn’t want to be spanked. Not there. Not then.

I am someone who has hidden her spanking fetish as a shameful secret for all of her very long life, and only recently, like in the last month, revealed it publicly here on Medium via a dry, thoughtful piece written under a pseudonym. I AM NOT READY for a public spanking. And I may never be ready. Because for me, spanking is a sexual act. And I don’t want to have sex in public (outside my imagination) and I don’t want to have sex with children (as these 30-somethings seem to me).

But out of nowhere comes that impossibly handsome young man in his chaps with his leopard print silky panties showing out the back. And he asks me to spank him. This is the kind of guy who when he walks in the room, everyone is going to turn to look and say hey, who is that? He has a beautiful and intelligent and soulful young wife who has a body beyond compare which I just watched twerking in the backyard. Where is she? I don’t know. Many of the young women here have small children. She could be pumping breast milk. Handsome hands me a paddle and bends over the chair and presents his butt to me. I spank him twice, hard.

Killer is standing nearby watching, eager to instruct, and says I should give Handsome some love in between the punishment. He demonstrates by rubbing Handsome’s ass gently with his hand. But are you kidding me? I cannot rub this super sexy man’s silky panty-covered ass with my hand. I’m not here to go there. I can’t. I cannot.

I give him another hard spank and he stands up, rubbing his behind. “That’s all I can take. I’m sensitive there,” he tells me. Okay. Good. I’m relieved.

Later, I find myself dancing topless with Bethany. I drink six beers over the course of the night. I had three before my performance when my adrenaline was racing, and three after, relaxing. When I crawl into the bed Bethany had pointed out to me, it is 3 am. Waaaaaayyyyy past my bedtime. I’m anticipating that when I wake up at the crack of dawn, the whole party house will be asleep. But nope! When I wake up at 6 am, it is still going on. There are fewer people around, but they are louder and wilder. IDK if more drugs have been consumed.

I pack my bags up and bring them into the kitchen. Bethany hands me a sloppy pile of something cheesy and eggy on an English muffin that is scrumptious and makes me a thermos of coffee for the road.

I’m heading towards the door when Handsome comes in and asks me to spank him again. He leans over the stove. Grabs a wooden spoon out of the kitchen canister and hands it to me. What could I do? Honestly, I would love to kiss and nuzzle and hold and pet and just gobble up this absolutely gorgeous man, but instead, I spank his tiny little man butt with the big wooden spoon.

“Hit me harder,” he says, standing up to look at me — unleashing his most powerful weapon, his face. “I can take it. I can take it. Give me everything you’ve got!”

So I do that.

The takeaway

The ride home is quick. The morning crisp and beautiful. I’m grateful to leave the madness and get back to my quiet apartment by the water. Hubs is still in bed when I arrive, and I kiss him softly, gratefully, on his thin, red-wine lips.

It’s been a strange trip, opening up our marriage. Six months ago, we were on the verge of divorce when I suggested he seek sex outside the marriage to let some pressure off. (It’s all detailed here, in my Chronicle of an Open Marriage.) He did. And he liked it. And he wants me to do the same, urging me often to go out and get laid by some other woman or man. But the point of his urging is for his own selfish ends, not my happiness. He doesn’t want to feel guilty, like he’s the only one benefiting from our newly opened marriage.

But what he doesn’t believe, although I’ve told him more than once, is that I don’t need to have sex with other people to feel the benefit of our open marriage. What I need is this.

I need the freedom to stay out all night at an outrageous stripper party that he doesn’t want to attend. And I need all the further freedoms that are stemming and flowering and fruiting from that seed.

I need not to be judged. I need not to be controlled. I need not to be needed and drained and required so damn fucking much that it sucks the life out of me.

I need to be released from my perpetual woman’s role of wife and mother and grandmother and servant and supplicant to all the damn people on the planet!

Here, let my man Jon Batiste explain. This is what I need. Give it to me.

Free to live (how I wanna live) I’ma get (where I’m gonna get) ’Cause it’s my freedom

What happened next? Read Chronicle of an Open Marriage #17. Find all of my stories about opening our marriage on the list below, or about sex in general on this one. Get an email whenever I publish. And have a fantabulous day.