Trina: The One and Only Queen of Hip Hop
An impish fellow wanders about, randomly grabbing men's butts while his friends giggle. Nearby stands a gentleman wearing no pants, only a chain-mail tunic fashioned from what appear to be the discarded pop tabs of 10,000 Pepsi cans.
Male strippers — about eight absolute beefcakes — sweat as they strut through the crowd, collecting dollar bills in thongs MacGyver'ed from nothing but dental floss and a dish towel. One does a twerking handstand in the corner, propping himself against a man who appears very content with his view: an overhead shot of the dancer's glistening buttocks, which, upon closer inspection, appear to have a glowstick nestled inside like a hot dog in a bun. It is gluteal coordination on a mind-blowing scale.
