For some reason, I thought it was sexy to crawl onto the stage like some sort of sex-crazed panther. Hidden behind the speaker, none of the ladies saw me until I stood up. After an awkward pause, I smiled. They cheered. I didn’t think it would be sexy to prowl down the three steps that led to the dance floor so I just shimmed my hips and made my dong jiggle a bit.
The second tip set of the night was already a song in and other guys had already been out for a few minutes by the time I made my debut that Saturday night at Center Lights. One by one, the girls noticed that the new guy, Rico, was now stripped down to a sky blue banana hammock and black construction boots. I felt rather naked (figuratively); I hadn’t bothered working on my tan and felt extra pale under the lights. I hadn’t shaved my chest in two weeks and had unsightly stubbles. To top it off, my razor burn had just started going away. I felt cold as the air blasting from the vents up above gave me goose bumps and caused more stubble to painfully push through my pores.
An hour earlier I had helped set up the props readily available beside the DJ booth, which was a giant jukebox on the stage, standing tall above the black and white checkered dance floor. I made sure to grab the waters and ice from the kitchen, made sure we had bar towels for when Lance would spray whipped cream all over himself… and the dance floor at the end of his act, and I checked with Leon if there was anything else I could help with before the show started.
“So you ready, Rookie?” He asked.
“For what?” I acted confused. I was still reluctant to shake what my daddy gave me.
“To get out there and dance. You can dance right?” He continued.
I had only been to four shows at this point and hadn’t purchased my bottoms yet—I was able to get away with mankinis at The HotBox. I didn’t even have dance boots or my knee pads like the other guys did.
“Yeah, I guess. But do I just go out there with my shirt off? I didn’t order my bottoms yet. I figured I’d be ready in like two or three weeks.” I confessed.
“I got some clean ones you can buy off of me for 10 bucks,” Bryan chimed in.
“You sure they’re clean?” I asked.
“Trust me,” he assured me as he dug his Sicilian schnoze deep into the crumpled bottoms in his fist.
“I don’t have money on me right now.” I was avoiding going out to dance in between acts when I hadn’t planned on it. Besides, I found it rather odd for a man to offer another man a piece of cloth that he had previously drained his dick sweat in, for God knows how many times…months, maybe. And Bryan was rather sickly looking. I didn’t want to contract Hepatitis or whatever else had lurked in his crotch.
On the other side of the doors, Tommy Ray’s voice boomed over the speakers with the hot seat rules: “Ladies, what you see before you is what we call the hot seat. Throughout the night, you’ll have a chance to put yourself or one of your girlfriends right here in this seat. Who’s celebrating a birthday or bachelorette party?” I heard a few sections cheer. Tommy Ray continued on with his fast talk, “This is a perfect time to give that special girl a memory of a lifetime. We’ll start the bidding at $20 and go on until there’s one lady left standing… or sitting… or lying in my bed, whichever’s more clever for you, darling. But there are some rules. First rule, ladies, there is no touching of the dancers. Somebody say ‘Boo.’”
The women obeyed his command. “When you’re in this seat you have to keep your hands and feet inside the ride.” The ladies giggled, some cheered. “Throughout the night, the guys will be dancing up to you on these ropes you see here along the dance floor. This is for tipping. If you are not tipping, we ask you stand back so the lady behind you can have a chance to enjoy some dick swinging, too. But tips must go from your hand to the dancer’s hand. Don’t try to stuff it down their pants or make them fish it out your bra. ‘Cause they won’t go get it… I will, but they won’t. Also, ladies, there is no flash or video photography allowed AT ALL. If we catch you, we will confiscate your camera and you’ll be escorted out.”
I don’t think the women were listening after he said, “Say ‘Boo.’” From what I learned about women, they love talking. They hate being talked to. Tommy Ray finished up his spiel, “Last and final rule, ladies; the more noise you make the more they take off. So somebody make some noise in here!”
As the walls in the bathroom rumbled, Bryan and I finished up our dick-sheath transaction. “You can pay me at the end of the night. I’m sure you’ll make a few bucks.” He tossed me the bottoms from across the bathroom that dubbed as our dressing room.
Guys that came to the club during ladies night had to come in from the side door of the club because half of the dance floor would be sectioned off with an aluminum garage door that came down from the ceiling. Often, if they hadn’t been to the club on Saturday between 7 and 10, they would open the door and usually bumped into one of the dancers with a look of shock. It’s not every day you walk into a nightclub bathroom and see about six half naked men in Speedos and wonder if you hadn’t walked into the Blue Oyster from Police Academy. They either asked if this was the staff bathroom or tip toed around all the clothes sprawled out on the floor to go about pissing uncomfortably in a urinal—that would also dub as a coat rack. I’m sure they all squeezed their ass cheeks from shear homophobia.
The bathroom was no longer than a Buick and just as wide. It was suppose to be big enough to allow seven guys to change and get ready for acts and tip sets. Five headliners and two trailers; trailers are the newer guys earning their spots for an act. Tonight it was Alvin and Angel. Alvin was Leon’s cousin, a short Hawaiian cat, who only trail danced when he was short on paying his bills. Angel had just started a few months ago and had yet to have an act idea. His hobbies were long walks on the beach, looking at himself, going to the gym, and juicing up on ‘roids. There was no room in there when the guys’ bags and suitcases full of props and costumes flooded the pissy floor. You had to be careful not to put your head in the urinal when bending down to get something out of your bag or bump your bare ass against another guy’s during costume changes.
“I don’t have boots, though.” I mentioned, still trying to find my escape route. All I had were my all white Nike Air Force Ones and calf high socks. I’d look ridiculous.
“I got an extra pair of boots,” Ricky commented. “What size are you? I’m 9 ½.” He glared down at my feet. I was a size 13. The last time I tried a pair of shoes smaller than that was an 11 ½ and my toes smashed against each other the minute I stood up. “Do you think you’ll be able to fit these?” Ricky persisted.
“I can try.” Although I was eager to show these clowns some rhythm, the idea that I would sacrifice myself to be judged by a bunch of women; short, tall, fat, skinny, sexy, trashy, classy, hard-to-look-at, flawless, toothless, you name it. I had already had enough rejection with the XX chromosome gender growing up. I was doing this to one-up the ghosts of bitches past, not to revisit them and create new ghosts. But I didn’t want to punk down from what I took as a challenge from Leon. I’d have to psych myself up real fast.
“Good. You can go out on sets whenever you feel you’re ready. But I still need you to be the runner after acts to help clean up the mess,” Leon continued. Translation: “Blah, blah, blah. I am punk bitch who dances for gorillas to earn dollar in G-string. Hear me roar, bitch boy… and I have a tiny penis.” That’s basically what I took out of conversations between Leon and me.
The guys went out for the opening act, each catching a final look before strutting towards the stage. I started to undress and focused on not focusing on being focused. I figured I’d lose the nerves after just getting up on the stage and getting it over with. Kinda like my first time doing sex. I was shaking like a leaf in a tornado while I put my condom on. Three minutes into being rode by the neighborhood slut, I fell asleep. After that, I figured sex wasn’t so scary and looked for more sluts to fuck me to sleep. I like naps.
“Did he go over the rules with you?” Brett asked.
“No. what rules?”
He smirked and shook his head. “That sorry fucker is always setting people up to fall.”
“He just asked if I was ready to go out there tonight. So just dance and collect money, right?”
“No, no. There’s more. A lot more.”
I listened attentively as the almighty Brett Lee schooled me on the stripper checks and balances, “No touching the girls. Keep an arm’s distance in case the girls get wild. No touching of your nipples or grabbing your crotch. Actually, don’t touch yourself anywhere at all. Don’t pull your bottoms down or jack ‘em up your ass; they have to cover three-quarters of your ass. Take the money and slide it in your hammock or just hold it in your hand. Don’t be pulling your waistline so that the girl can look down and see your dick. If you get down on the floor, only two humps and transition into another move. You can’t simulate sexual acts. Don’t stand too long in front of a girl. We all gotta make money; she’s not here just to see you. Move clockwise at the ropes. If a guy is taking too long when you’re ready to move on to the next girl, pass him at least two girls to his right. If you see the guys bunched up in one place, find another empty spot.”
“Damn. That’s a lot rules.”
“It’s the State’s rules and regulations. There used to be a time when we had to wear Band-aids over our nipples and before that we could only wear biker shorts and cut off T-shirts. We were only allowed to show our mid-section. So if you think you look gay now, imagine having to go out there looking like a WAM! groupie.”
“Too many years, kid. Since I was 16.”
Brett was taking his time getting ready for his act. He had put on his business pants, button up dress shirt, and was now working on his tie. He was up first and usually the first guy sat out on opening acts since there was no tip set in between to allow for preparation. But Brett hardly ever had to do opening acts. He was Randy’s prized dancer. Brandon had told me he had made $1,000 hot seat the Thursday before I first went into the MIH office. He had been dancing for 15 years with various groups in the area. Whenever one folded, he joined another. Like Randy, he too was a journeyman. Unlike Randy, Brett got with the times and spent more time in tanning beds, hair salons, and the gym rather than getting coked up. He had also done a few guest stints for La’Bare down in Houston and Thunder From Down Under out in Vegas. Next to Chippendales and Thunder, La’Bare was next on the stripper echelon. You had to have an incredible body and soap opera face to even be considered. Brett’s narrow physique didn’t quite match the profile and aside from his linear jaw, he had an average looking face. But with the notorious act he had, he didn’t need bronze. He had creativity.
I still wasn’t ready. “Think long, think wrong, brotha’,” Brett encouraged me as he prepared for the next set.
“I’m going. I just feel stupid next to you guys. I mean, I don’t have knee pads or chaps or a bandana like everyone else,” I confessed.
“These girls don’t give a fuck what you’re wearing, they’re just horny as hell,” Lance, AKA Sharky, butted in as he strode in late. “Hey, what’s this bullshit I hear about drawing names?” Brett just shrugged.
Lance shook his head and mumbled to himself as he rushed to get ready, sniffing each article of stripper clothing he pulled out of his dance bag. He would follow Brett in the line-up and eventually, his seat would only sell for $50. Brett went for $200. Lance felt he was one of the better dancers and should have gone next to last. Brett was a hard act to follow, so it was no wonder he made far less than the master. I decided I’d go out the next tip set. “You nervous man?” Leon questioned.
“A little. I’m just not sure I can dance the way you guys do. At least not yet,” I said. It wasn’t that I couldn’t dance. My parents use to put me in Salsa competitions when I was a kid. And growing up in an urban-suburbia, I use to go to a lot of house parties where dancing only consisted of grinding on a girl’s booty and copping a feel. I was good at that.
“Look, Rook. Half of these guys don’t have rhythm. I’m one of them. All you got to do is a little two step and you’re good,” Leon said. “Besides, all you need in this business is two or three things out of four: A good body, a pretty face, charisma, and rhythm. I already know you got half down already.” What I took from this conversation: “Blah, blah, blah. Even though I think I’m better than you, I wouldn’t mind going out back one night and comparing flesh swords. How ‘bout it, kiddo?”
I hadn’t talked to the girls in the crowd or the other guys much during the previous shows. So he wouldn’t know if I had charisma or not. I turned my gaydar on and watched myself around Leon the rest of the night. His last comment made my fear resurface. Let me make it clear right now; I’ve never been a homophobe.
I’m very liberal in my ways, but this new culture shock was too much to swallow all at once without wondering which gender was hitting on you the most.
“It’s up to you. But there’s money out there tonight,” Leon concluded. There was indeed money to be collected. After Brett’s hot seat, the girls flooded the dance floor with dollars. It was hard to figure out which dancer it was intended for, so they just grabbed what they could and selfishly stuffed it down the front of their bottoms.
Tommy Ray started the music for the next tip set. “Ladies, get those dollar bills ready because here they come again…and again, if you know what I’m sayin’!”
I just have to go out there, I realized. Just remember the rules, be cool, and make that money. I started to think about having to go back to work for the first time since I returned from the desert. I thought about the bitch who broke my heart in middle school and the slore who ripped it out of my ribcage while I dodged bullets. It was time to take back my nutsack. Fuck it, I’m going out there.
Tommy Ray saw me creeping up to the DJ booth. “Ladies, I want you to make some noise for the new meat…” He covered the microphone with his hands and asked me, “What’s your stage name, jack?”
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and exhaled slowly. I opened my eyes and looked over at Leon. He watched me curiously to see what my next move would be. I think I saw him smirk. I’m sure he thought I would chicken out. From the crouching position, I looked up at Tommy Ray and said, “Rico.”
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