Yo-yo, please get your big butt outta my face! | AspenTimes.com
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Yo-yo, please get your big butt outta my face!

When was the last time you saw two strippers having oral sex onstage in Aspen?

Exactly.

As if a controversial rap band wasn’t enough of an anomaly in our little vanilla, white bread, may-o-nays town, the controversial rap band 2LiveCrew threw a couple of big stripper chicks into the mix during their late night appearance at the Double Diamond last Saturday.



Clad in g-string bikinis and sneakers, these sweaty, shall we say “stocky,” ladies unabashedly threw their big butts into the air to clarify once and for all what it really means to shake that booty.

It’s not like I’ve never been to a rap show before. I saw the Beastie Boys, House of Pain and Cypress Hill (remember that song, “Hits from the Bong?”) play at the CU Field House back in ’92 and made out with some random guy on the dance floor.




Let’s just say the whole ghetto thing is a major turnon for little Jewish girls from Connecticut, whose street smarts amount to being able to hail a cab to SoHo. The hard baseline, raunchy lyrics, and big, sweaty dudes in gaudy chain jewelry and cockeyed baseball hats are my parents’ worst nightmare. Splendid!

I’m like, totally down with that whole scene, so I ignored my roommate’s warning that “any woman who goes to that show gets what she deserves.” Whatever! I’m not afraid. I love rap and hip-hop because it’s so bad, ya’ll. Was ‘sup. Don’t you be dissin’ me an’ all dat sheeee.

For the hours people waited for the show to begin, the Double D filled with that rhythmic, hip-hop grind feeling – girls in studded belts and pageboy hats, swaying their hips and biting their lower lip with eyes closed, bellies exposed between low rider pants and tight, small shirts. The guys were, well, dressed like they always are, in baggy shorts and T-shirts.

When the band finally came onstage just after midnight, my friend Noah pushed me into the front row where I would get the best view of this woman’s rear end shaking violently in my face, and then acted like he had done me some type of favor.

“Slap it! Slap it!” people behind me yelled. Some guy grabbed my arm like a puppet’s and put my small hand in contact with this mountain of sweaty flesh.

I stood, motionless, eyes wide and mouth open in an expression my dear friend Stevie likes to call the “doughnut hole,” lips stretched into the shape of an “O.” I mean, I’m experienced and all, but I can honestly say that was a first.

The crowd seemed to thicken with ever-increasing arousal, pressing me against the edge of the stage as hundreds of sexually deprived mountain guys packed into the floor behind me, their clothes sticky with sweat, the sour smell of alcohol and cigarettes thickening the already dense air.

Right arms waved above their heads in the rich-guy-trying-to-be-ghetto pose, pushing me forward so my shins banged against the edge of the stage every time I tried to bend my knees.

The dancers pulled their triangle bikini tops apart to expose – and shake – their bare breasts, relatively small compared to the rest of them. As if that wasn’t enough, they dragged two empty chairs onto the stage for any volunteers from the audience interested in having a little lap dance.

Joe Tallpaleskinnyguy slam dunks onto the stage, where he is immediately tackled by one of the dancers who jumps up and throws her legs around his waist. He manages to sustain the thrust of her weight, driven by this golden opportunity to live out every demented fantasy he’s ever had in his whole life.

The guy in the other chair struggles with playing it off like he’s The Man, even though it’s painfully obvious that he’s never been so terrified in all of his sheltered little life.

Then they bring up two girls, who look equally as torn between thrill and shock as the dancers jiggle and bounce and flash and shake.

The next thing you know, every little rich girl in Aspen jumps up onstage, as if the urge to live out their stripper/lesbian fantasy is stronger than any concern whatsoever about public humiliation. They really get right into the spirit of the whole thing, shaking that thing like they had been doing it their whole lives, like they really had spent some time in the city rather than in upscale suburbs and boarding schools.

There were so many girls dancing onstage that I hardly noticed when Big Stripper Chick A and Big Stripper Chick B appeared to be, um, lying on the ground with their heads buried between each other’s legs.

I mean, it’s bad enough when my roommates sit around and watch porn like it’s “Sesame Street,” but all that flesh in the flesh was a little too much even for this Princess, yo.

Oh, relax. I had nothing to do with it. I can honestly say I’m a bigger prude than I thought. Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe I’m turning into my parents. Maybe I’d rather spend a quiet night at home with a good book and a long hot bath than melt in the steam of all that public body heat.

Maybe I’d rather go back to the innocence of my youth, when “yo, yo” was a toy on a string and I had never seen some big, almost-naked lady shaking her butt in my face.

At the same time, it’s fun to shake things up once in awhile. That’s why I love rap so much in the first place. They might be raw, but they’re artists, after my own heart, who just want to be in your face, Aspen.

The Princess would like to apologize to everyone who didn’t know in advance that parental discretion is advised. E-mail your complaints to alison@berkleymedia.com.


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