Tommy burst into the changing room. His bare chest glistened with sweat, a painful glare from the incandescent lights outlining his muscles. He wore a golden speedo that left nothing to the imagination. A wide grin split his face, eyes even wider. He ran his hand through his spiked, out-of-style hair. Tommy looked like Guy Fieri if he went on a bodybuilder training regimen.
“Holy fucking Christ, they’re wild out there! One girl, red blouse, black skirt, looked like an Instagram model and sucked me like it was the last dick she was ever gonna get!” He sauntered in, grinning like a mad idiot. Bryce frowned, doing his best to ignore his insane co-star.
He could hear the chatter of the crowd, through the thin walls of the changing room. When Tommy had been out there it was a drone of screams and hoots. When Bryce first started this all-touching male stripper gig, he used to get headaches from the raw madness of a horny female crowd.
Whoever thought women weren’t filthy perverts was an idiot. Women were just a different kind of pervert than men. They acted like degenerates in private where men did it in public. Everyone was a pervert.