This gorilla twerks next level, a real Missy Elliot. He got Doggie-style.
He got groin hammers. He got crotch grabs that make a stripper blush.

In the Fremont party zone, the ladies fall in line to drop deep
in these gorilla arms.  Arms that smell of margarita mix and apple shampoo.
Because he bounces them around like lint in a dryer. 
Like ice in a blender.  Like twigs in a storm.  

You see only shoeless feet. You hear only muffled cries.

But off to the side, the gorilla's rival, Chuckie, looks sad. He's just taken his mask off –
a baby head with red-eyes and a creeper's smile.  In his hand, he holds a little rubber knife.
The last hour netted a grand total of 12 dollars. And, it was hot in there.

Chuckie watches as the ladies swarm the gorilla. He wishes he could pump
groin hammers in his Chucky outfit. But he's too short for that.  

Worse,  the baby mask scares the children. 

And, that manwhore Kong takes all the oxygen out of the room.

Chucky tightens his grip on the rubber knife.  The gorilla keeps thrusting.

If anything, the crowd is getting larger.
 

__

Out one night in Vegas, I saw a man gyrating in a massive gorilla suit.  Ladies were lining up to get a dance or a hug.  Off to the side, another street artist had taken off his Chucky mask and was standing there looking a bit envious and forlorn. It inspired this snapshot about peacocking and masculine hierarchies.