Dear Penthouse Forum,
I never thought that this would happen to me, but I swear that it did.
Many months ago, I went out dancing with a group of my friends. Well, to be more accurate, I went out dancing with a couple that I know, and they brought along several female friends. Because straight women, it seems, like nothing better than grinding with gay men at a fabulously gay nightclub with pumpin’ dance music.
So, on this particular night, I was wearing my best pair of Gap blue jeans, a black belt, black boots, socks and a black t-shirt. And that is the complete litany of my wardrobe for the evening– nothing omitted. I had chosen these particular jeans this evening because they fit snuggly in the ass, but not TOO snuggly in the waist. They were perfect fitting jeans allowing for freedom of movement all while showing off the goods. After all, I knew we were going to the twink dance bar where I wouldn’t be distracted by anyone I found remotely attractive and so I would be focused on dancing. The jeans would allow me to hit he floor and ‘move with a purpose’.
Because I can motherfucking dance.
After getting myself properly lubricated with beer (and after the girls became properly shitfaced on cosmos and the like) we all hit the dance floor. The beat was thumping, the dance floor jumping, the booties bumping, the twink boys humping. In short, it was like a Ft. Lauderdale “Girls Gone Wild” video- minus the titty flashing. I was having a blast with the girls (and my couple-friends) grinding and dancing and goofing and throwing moves to the latest beats. We even took turns getting in the ‘shadow box’. This was really just one of the platforms with a sheet draped in front (but with back lighting) so that you could only see dancer’s shadows. Naturally I got in with the boys, dropped to my knees, and mimed giving head.
The howls of laughter from outside the box were all the encouragement I needed.
Another beer and 30 minutes more of dancing and I’m a sweaty, piggy mess. But we are having so much fun that nobody wants to leave the dance floor. Then the damn remix of Kelly Clarkson comes on and everyone starts going to town. Myself included. I start throwing my best dance moves about including my patented booty ‘salt shaker’, the pelvis popping, and then the dread ‘dropping it like it was hot’.
That’s when I heard the rip.
I completely froze in a semi-squatted position on the dance floor, while the action roiled about me. Then I quickly stood up, and turned around so my ass would be to the wall. I reached around to feel the back of my favorite jeans… and the damage was extensive.
I had successfully torn the entire ass out of my jeans. The tear was not one of the artfully horizontal rips under the pocket at the top of the hamstring. Oh no. The tear went vertically from the top of my left pocket all the way to about 3 inches below my crotch. And THEN there was a secondary tear starting at the top of the pocket (this one horizontal) so that the left cheek of my ass was almost completely exposed.
It was very drafty.
My friend Kevin had noticed that I had stopped ‘getting jiggy with it’ and danced up to me.
Kevin: CB, what’s wrong.
CB: Kev- I just tore the entire ass out of my jeans.
Kevin: Oh. My. God. No way!
Kevin: Let me see!
Kevin turns me around and bends down to look. I feel him grab the fabric. Then Kevin dissolves into fits of laughter on the dancefloor- all the while drawing more attention to my plight.
CB: Its not funny! I think I need to leave. Maybe I can go to a Wal-Mart or something to get a new pair and then come back.
(this is honestly how I was thinking– a wal-fucking-mart)
Kevin: Where the hell are you going to buy a new pair at 1 am? Just fuck it and keep dancing.
Jay: Hey guys, what’s up?
Kevin: CB tore the ass out of his pants.
Jay: (chuckles and shrugs) Lots of guys have torn jeans. So your underwear is showing- no big deal.
Kevin redoubles in laughter.
CB: Um, Jay? I’m “commando” tonight.
Jay bursts out laughing at this point and spins me around. Then he calls over the girls to check out my new look. The girls scream and titter and start feeling my ass. One girl (who is now hyper drunk) starts calling me “Assless Chaps” in a slurred, sorority girl sort of way. This bothers me on a fundamental level, not because my ass is hanging out, but because (a) jeans are NOT chaps, and (b) chaps are by their very design ‘assless’. So saying ‘assless chaps’ is completely redundant.
All of this I explain to her after about her sixth use of the ‘assless chaps’ moniker. All to no avail because she continues to use it. Except when she says it she starts laughing so it comes out like “Assles Cha-ha-ha-ha-haps”!
I try to burn her face off with a glare.
I am now stuck on the dance floor, because it is sufficiently dark and crowded and there is less of an opportunity for people to see my shredded derriere. Kevin brings me another beer. I’m still threatening to leave.
Kevin: CB, look. They’re ripped. Its done. Just have fun with it. Nobody cares. Its funny and hot. You are at a gay bar for Christ’s sake! This is NORMAL!
After finishing my next beer, I’m in a better place mentally. I’ve come to grips with my pale ass hanging out for the world to see. And I’ve decided that I don’t have a bad ass, so why not? Its then that the group decides I’m ready for a wee promenade around the bar.
We walk around the whole place- including the well-lit back deck and also the ‘video bar’ where I lean up against the barfront and order another beer. We are all laughing about my assless mishap and embracing it fully. And it was a good time. We spent the rest of the night in celebration of my ass- which I shook freely on the dance floor until last call.
It wasn’t until I got home later that night and realized that other than our immediate group, NOT ONE PERSON touched, groped, or otherwise took advantage of my open for business booty.
What a pisser, huh?
Epilogue: Several weeks later I was out again with my friends, and I noticed something. There were quite a few guys in strategically ripped jeans, and the rips were showing skin, not underwear. I firmly believe I started (or at the very least, rekindled) a trend.