Whoreticulture

 

Good day to you, dear reader, and a hearty, lusty welcome to this XXX-rated edition of The Unvarnished Truth.

DISCLAIMER - If any children you know of are known to read this blog, may I suggest cut/pasting the words "alpaca", "cupcake" or "monkey" over any word and phrase you deem unsuitable for sensitive eyes. The world out there, virtual or otherwise is a dangerous place for impressionable youngsters. Perhaps you should just avoid breeding for a while.

 

Roger That

As is tradition here on the U.T., you get a relatively fresh & juicy blog (depending on my schedule or hangover recovery time) after every Punch Drunk Cabaret performance. And within it is contained the usual tales, exploits and bawdy rigmarole that surround a typical PDC show. Today's theme deals with things most everybody likes: sex and money. Or, in this case, sex for money, metaphorically speaking.

It is said that change will do you good -- not to mention a jolly, good rogering -- and though I'm not prepared at this time to provide every single reader with the latter, the former will have to suffice.

Your foppish heroes did something a little different this past weekend. We attended a convention-style event where you display your wares, hoping that passing potential buyers come along, like what they see and purchase your services. If this seems dubiously akin to prostitution it's because it is. But as alluded to before, there will be no actual rogering.

 

Just A Gigolo

We were there to perform a short showcase before the movers (read: johns), shakers (read: johns, again) and bookers (yup) of Canuck talent for their venues in Western Canada. The rest of the weekend event was spent metaphorically schtupping every last living thing that moved at this year's conference location, the Dow Centennial Centre in Ft. Saskatchewan, Alberta.

The live performance itself was on a stage in a nice theatre where we were right at home doing what we do best: rockin' hard and lookin' good! -- the calling card for any decent gigolo.

And like any man or woman of easy virtue, we put it all out there for the allotted 15 minutes of stage time. That's right... in & out for a brief, dangerous liaison with a small auditorium of frisky customers. That's no small feat when you're out there baring your naked soul to strangers hoping you can get it up. And by that, I mean cupcake.

 

Oh, Nuts

We erected a trio of tunes, "Copperplated Boats", a cover of "Rock This Town" and "The Ghost Of Harry Houdini";  show-stoppers, all. During the high energy set (which was ribbed for maximum pleasure) your modest scribe pulled a real boner move. Shall we just say that with all the running around we do in tight trousers, there happened a slight trauma to the reproductive organs that, on the downside, caused some temporary discomfort and, on the upside, caused me to sing just a little bit higher. Though I needn't the extra range on this particular occasion, it's nice to know that I could give it that extra inch when called upon. As my old biology teacher used to say, "For a man, the test he's given requires grace under pressure". Sometimes you have to take one for the team or, in this case, bruise one.

 

Meet Market

So now it's up to the buyers of musical flesh. It's encumbent upon them to decide whether or not you have what it takes to satisfy their lascivious desire. So you await their lustful eyes and probing fingers at your display booth in what is interestingly called the "contact room".  There you stand, dressed to the wingtips with a roomful of other painted metaphorical strumpets, hoping with bow ties and puppy dog eyes that someone will find you pretty and at least make you a proposal. An actual booking, though, would indeed do the trick.

As far as appearances go, Ringmaster Randy, Rev. Eklund and Ol' Sawbones did not disappoint! From our usual stylish onstage flair, to the sideshow carnival booth that the ringmaster hisself designed, to the constant display of dapper dress at every public opportunity, we ensured that all our potential suitors would be tempted by our apples, as it were. 

And I must say that, indeed, every girl really is crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man! I, personally, have never had so many delightful ladies compliment me on my attire. Granted, most of them were of a matronly age and one younger, tall drink of water from Toronto may have had a Harvey Wallbanger or four but I don't want to complain about details. My fragile ego was constantly stimulated nonetheless.

 

World’s Oldest Profession Minus One

At the end of it all, a successful but mentally draining weekend was had. But I never knew whoring could be so hard on the system! Another stress, if you could call it, was keeping up our reputation of being gentleman players. Tough to do thru “communicating for the purposes of…”. It’s SO much easier to just simply perform on stage and do away with the business end of the industry.

One important parallel we’re missing from all of this is the role of the pimp. Since we don’t have a booking agent, we, in essence, pimp ourselves. WE get all gussied up with dignity down, WE put ourselves on the proverbial street corner, WE make various body gestures and flirty talk to woo someone out of their money for our ample delights & services and WE slap ourselves around if we don’t get the job done. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

 

To all the wonderful folks, friends old & new and customers that we networked with at Alberta Showcase 2012: may you all smoke a satisfying cigarette.

 

And that, in all it's trollopy glory, is the unvarnished truth.

 

Sawbones