Booty leaves and Chip’s relief arrives: Blondie, an unremarkable, yellow-haired fellow wearing a confusing tangle of black thong and baby blue, box-cut swimsuit, paired with white Converse All-Stars with no laces and all the enthusiasm of a Jewel cashier at the end of a graveyard shift. While BBJ nuzzles at Hip Chip’s happy trail, the latter removes his glasses and chews idly at one earpiece, like a math professor mulling over some particularly vexing formula. Both are working a recent Saturday night at the, the unofficial southern terminus of Boystown’s Halsted Street strip. ![]() “Big Booty Jock,” or BBJ, another dancer I’ve nicknamed for note-taking purposes, visits his buddy Chip for some friendly teabagging. He has two speeds: a hot-and-bothered, Home Depot paint-mixer hip shake that makes his dick flop violently in its thin jersey pouch and a glacially slow rotation, as if he’s gyro meat cooking on a spindle, a move he garnishes with a teasing pull-down of his jockstrap, a garment that’s far more fashion than function.Ĭhip’s designer ’strap is jet black to match the rest of his outfit: bow tie, wide cuff bracelets, fingerless bicycle gloves, loafers and browline glasses. The dancer I’ve nicknamed “Hipster Chippendale” in my head is a study in contrasts.
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