As fourth-year students, my friend and I wanted to celebrate our final spring break with a bang, so naturally, we took a spontaneous trip to Las Vegas. We had little expectations for the trip. Our only requirements were good vibes and good eats. On our first night out, we found ourselves seated in the fifth row in a small storefront venue at a Black male revue show—the only one of its kind in Vegas.
With just ten dollars worth of fake dollar bills (since it’s technically not a strip club, you exchange real money for “funny money,” which the dancers exchange for real money at the end of the night), we sat amongst a rowdy crowd—mostly made of women old enough to be our mothers and aunts—as scantily clad, muscular, oiled-up men gyrated on stage and throughout the crowd in a variety of costumes. As the two youngest in the room, we sat in mild shock and amazement as we watched the blatant displays of sexuality from this crowd of women, who wooed teasingly as they stuffed stacks of funny money into the dancers’ waistbands.
There was one dancer who caught our eye in particular. Tall, dark, glistening skin, dreads, and a gold grill—our type for sure. Apparently, he was a crowd favorite, too.
We thought we were grown, fourth years celebrating spring in Vegas—Sin City! But seeing these women, we weren’t as grown as we thought we were. There was one dancer who caught our eye in particular. Tall, dark, glistening skin, dreads, and a gold grill—our type for sure. Apparently, he was a crowd favorite, too, even being featured on a reality show where the show’s cast members visited the revue show. Throughout the night, he kept returning to us and giving us extra dances despite our inability to shower him with money. The last thing I wanted to be was the person who thought the stripper, who was just doing their job, had fallen for them. But, after the last encounter, my friend and I started to think our delusions might be true. This was real for him.
He crouched down next to us.
“Y’all got Instagram?” he rasped in my friend’s ear over the loud music.
We nodded in unison. He gave us his username, prompting us to follow him. When we returned to our hotel, we found our Instagram pages and stories spammed with a barrage of likes from him. In my DM sat a message notification, from—you guessed it—him.
“Hey, I can pull up on y’all right now.”
Textbook line. What a man.
Our noses scrunched in mild disgust before throwing our heads back in laughter. He really did want us. I replied, politely declining the offer, and thanked him for a great show.
His expressed interest and attraction to me had pulled back the curtain of desire that separates reality and fantasy—the one that had separated us from him.
Despite our obvious attraction to him at the show, back at the hotel, re-situated in reality, we realized we didn’t actually want him at all. His proximity had ruined the fantasy. The supposedly inaccessible had become accessible. His expressed interest and attraction to me had pulled back the curtain of desire that separates reality and fantasy—the one that had separated us from him. Once the barrier was obfuscated, our daydream began to fade. In crouching down to connect with us, he not only stepped across that thin veil of desire, but he also stepped down from his pedestal down to the ranks of the common man.
As we swiped through his Instagram, our desire dimmed. His instagram was filled with all the thirst traps, flexing, the occasional group dinner with his coworkers, and, of course, the accounts he followed were majority women. Social media often functions as a platform where high-profile individuals can profit off their relatability and build their social currency. Still, sometimes, their relatability dulls the shiny allure of celebrity. Sometimes, we like celebrities and performers because they are different from us because they offer an escape into a fantasy where we are not so plain or regular ourselves.
Turns out, the cliche is true. Meeting your heroes, or your idols, sometimes sucks because, realistically, some people suck from time to time.
Years ago, in the 90s, my mother met a (now-retired) popular NFL player who was a close friend of my aunt's then boyfriend, who also played in the NFL. A real-life encounter with said person where she heard him expose comments of the misogynistic, demeaning variety offhandedly ruined whatever somewhat decent opinion she had held of him prior. To her, he was just like any other misogynistic man, except with professional athletic capabilities, looks, and celebrity. However, some people automatically canonize a figure, given those attributes.
In high school, a few of my friends were super fans of a famous rapper from our city. As loyal supporters, they listened to all the music and went to all the concerts and merch pop-ups. They sang him praises. One was even featured in the rapper’s documentary. However, after a series of occurrences that culminated in a catastrophic event that highlighted the artist’s carelessness and inconsideration for authority and his supporters, they quickly realized that he was not who they thought him to be. Turns out, the cliche is true. Meeting your heroes, or your idols, sometimes sucks because, realistically, some people suck from time to time.
When we desire celebrities, we also aspire to their level of power and prestige.
We often perceive platformed talent, skill, and beauty as a form of power and prestige. However, where there is implied power, there is implied hierarchy. When we desire celebrities, we also aspire to their level of power and prestige. But attached to that fantasy of desire is a set of expectations and ideals, so when we interact with our desired idols and they fail to live up to our fantasies, we are thrust back into reality. The dancer had us thoroughly captivated while onstage, twisting and rolling his oiled body for our pleasure. We desired him. We wanted him. We wanted the fantasy of him. While the celebrity may seem above all due to prestige, they are also constrained by their fan's desires.
Places like strip clubs or revue shows have an interesting relationship with gender, sexuality, and power dynamics. Traditionally, those adult entertainment establishments cater to the male gaze. Women are the ones performing. They are the desired. While the men pay them for the illusion of having a beautiful woman entertain or desire them. Our desire and the nature of the show subverted traditional notions of gender, power, and sexuality. The men were the ones being desired; they were the ones being tasked with entertaining and fulfilling the fantasies of the female patrons. We paid to see them. We gave them money. Being aware of this dynamic as it all unfolded definitely provided intrigue and fuel to our fantasy. However, once it clearly became apparent that the dancer desired us during and especially after the show, that dynamic shifted back to the one we were highly familiar with as women.
Mind you, none of this is inherently bad or anything; it's just interesting and revelatory about human relationship dynamics during encounters, fantasy, power, desire, and gender hierarchy. We are human. Desire and lust are all normal emotions. With all that being said, whatever happens in Las Vegas should definitely stay there.
