Banana Hammocks - Chapter 2

"Firm and Smooth"

Her dance was as exotic as her appearance. She had great stage presence and when it was her set, everyone in the club stopped all side conversations to watch. She was Latin, with dark brown hair-almost black-that shimmered auburn when the revolving stage lights passed over her. The nice curvature of an ass, hips wide enough to be considered child bearing, and D cups shimmered even in bar lighting. Man, were those breasts nice. They looked fresh; not sure if they were saline or silicon, though. They almost looked natural. She began winding her body to the hypnotic beat of the music slithering from the stage speakers, catching eye contact from all the johns with those deep brown pupils. We were all entranced and in unison began showering the stage with dollar bills of all denominations. She had no obvious physical flaws. She must be psycho or needy or damaged. She wore clear platform heels making her stand nearly five-nine and wore white fishnets and G-string that glowed under the backlights. She was the most beautiful creation of a woman I’d ever seen. Where was she from and do they manufacture more?

“Everyone, give it up for La Reyna,” the DJ encouraged as she collected her earnings, exiting stage left. She retreated to the backstage through the door at the other corner of the stage. “Man, she was great,” I turned to Reggie who was also captivated but less impressed. “Yeah man, she was ‘great’.”

I ignored his sarcasm. “I’m gonna get a dance from her.” I eagerly got up and headed toward the back of the club where the private dance rooms were located barricaded by sheer satin curtains. I told the obese door man I wanted to request Reyna for three dances. “$225 up front. Tipping is optional, but expected,” he advised. “Ok, let me go to the ATM.”

Without blinking, I headed for the entrance where the ATM machine greeted all the johns as they barged into Club Neon in the unincorporated community of Brandon. I couldn’t punch in my PIN fast enough before finally withdrawing $300, the max my bank would allow me for one day. Thankfully, I already had $200 in my pocket but I was waiting to burn that on drinks and tips. Little did I know that topless gentlemen clubs down here didn’t serve alcohol. The drunken bachelor party that had come in before us when we arrived threw me off. They must have pre-gamed at another bar, because when I approached the bar earlier to order a Long Island Ice Tea, the bartender suggested the tea, hold the Long Island.

Returning to the ogre door man, I repeated my request like a kid who had just chased down the ice cream truck. “$225 up front,” he reminded me. “Yeah, you said that a few minutes ago,” I replied not realizing that he cared more about the faces on the bills rather than the pathetic looks of us johns. “Stay close, she’ll be available in 15.”

Damn, she was definitely one of the more sought after girls here. I looked over at Reggie who had begun a conversation with the skinny blonde rocker stripper who was on stage now, but no one else cared much for. He was chatting it up, making her giggle. That must be the interest trick to get sympathy dollars out of customers, giggling. He tossed her a few. The bachelor party had four other girls tending to them. One girl had the groom-to-be take off his shirt and whipped his flabby stomach with his belt. The other guys cheered her on. He too had a natural set of man-titties. A bouncer walked over and scolded the group, informing Klinefelter (Google it, it's actually a funny disease to have) that he had to put his shirt back on and they needed to take it down a notch or he’d have to ask them to leave.

“Hey, you ready?” A soft but commanding Spanish accent asked me. I turned towards the sweet smell of cherry blossoms floating from behind me. Reyna was waiting impatiently, as she knew she had many more guys waiting for her services that would cash out real nice. Especially the confident man sitting on the plush sofa next to the curtains in a pinstriped tailored suit. He was the only one she batted an eyelash at. That must be her sugar daddy. “Yeah,” I squealed. Man, what the hell is wrong with me? I was acting like a bitch. I’d already been 30 plus strong on my roster . I’d seduced girls before, and being a jock in high school plus a promising student had given me the best of both worlds. Had I left my balls in the desert?

She led me to the last booth on the right. She shut the curtain behind her and I was now cocooned by her pheromones. “What are you wearing? It smells good,” I asked. “I think it’s called Pheromones.” Hmm, clever.

“I’ll wait ‘til the next song starts. This one is almost done. I wouldn’t want to cheat you.” Quite a business lady, I was impressed. I felt respected and insured that my money was going to be well spent on her services. While the song finished, she took of her white see-through sheer cloak.

“Are you wearing a belt?”

“Huh?”

“Are you wearing a belt? I don’t want the buckle to scratch me.”

“Oh! Yeah.” I started for my buckle but she had already lifted the bottom of my shirt for inspection. In two motions, she unfastened the lock and pulled the belt out with a swipe. A she-Pootie Tang.

As the next song faded in, she turned around and rocked her hips left to right, right to left. She began her trance again. She bent her knees and leaned back to sit on my lap. “What are the rules?” I whispered in a more relaxed and slightly deeper voice. “You can touch only what’s not covered,” she replied. Perfect, she was only wearing a G-string and heels, and I didn’t have a foot fetish, so I wasn’t disappointed.

She slowly slid up and down my body. Her hair engulfed my nostrils with scents of raspberry and vanilla. Her skin was pleasantly soft, and covered in body glitter. I didn’t mind her leaving her sex dust on one of my nicer-expensive shirts. I cupped her Ds and massaged them in circular patterns. I rubbed her stomach and spread my hands across her hips. She turned around to straddle me and I naturally clasped her butt. Firm and smooth. She must do squats. She probably owns her own elliptical machine. Hovering over me, she dipped her head slightly and draped her hair over my face. That raspberry-vanilla essence entered my nose again; seeping out of the corners of my mouth. And I melted like a bitch, again. This is what girls must feel like during that scene in The Notebook… or so I’ve heard.

The song ended. I could have sworn that track played longer on the radio. As the next song started I decided to explore her personality… or character. “Where are you from? Puerto Rico, Mexico, the Dominican Republic?”

“You think they got asses like this in Mexico?”

“I know they have burros.” She stopped grinding me for a second, looked back and smirked. Note to self: STOP BEING A FUCKING CORNBALL.

“No, sweetie, I’m Cuban.”

“What?! Stop, get up.”

“You got something against Cubans?” She protested, looking confused.

“No no no. I want to talk to you. I’m Cuban, too. But where I’m from, I never meet other Cubans. This is awesome.” Note to self: See previous note.

“You got a song and a half left.”

“That’s fine. I’ll pay for more time.”

“I got a line, honey, I don’t think you’ll be able to request me again for another two hours. Plus, I still have more sets tonight. How about I finish up this session and I’ll find you before I go back on stage?”

“Word!” I was again impressed by her business ethics. For the remainder of my dances, I was in bliss. Not only was she the sexiest dancer here, but she was of my maternal land, and quite possibly ancestral blood. Wait, that sounded sick. DELETE. What I meant to say is that more than my attraction and infatuation connected for her connected us.

As my session came to a close, I remembered I had wads of 10s in my pocket. I gladly handed them over. “I’ll be to the right of the stage,” I informed her so that she could find me easily. She probably wouldn’t remember. Did I weird her out? No way, I’m sure there have been worse johns. “Okay,” she replied. “You want a drink or something?” I asked. That sounded cool, but of course I’d only be able to get her soda or water. “Water is fine, thanks.”

I started walking by the booths towards the curtains. I glanced as I passed each one being able to see blurred figures of skin maneuvering around clientele as Reyna had done with me just a few minutes ago. Each man fulfilling his five minute fantasy, finding his own connection.

I headed towards Reggie to tell him the news. “How was it?” He smirked. “She’s Cuban, too,” I informed him. I told him how she was going to meet me before her next set to talk a little, flirt, liquefy me of my savings. I casted doubt, though.

“Yeah, she probably won’t come. You ready? I’m starving,” he moaned.

“Hold on, let’s stay for another 15 minutes and if she doesn’t come by, we’ll leave.” I stood up and remembered to buy her bottled water. I ordered a Pepsi. "We only serve Coke products,” the bartender informed me.

“Whatever. Hey, do you know much about that Reyna girl?” I asked.

“There are so many girls here and most of the girls that dance here work at other clubs, too. Do you know how many assess and titties I see a week?”

Good point. Note to self: Achieve the ass to titty to face ratio like the bartender. I brought the bottle water and Coke back to the table.

“Alex, I’m really hungry man. Let’s go, “ Reggie complained.

“Hold on, man, let me finish my drink.”

“You got me water?”

“No, it’s for Reyna.”

“You bought the stripper water? What a fag. She probably has a cooler full of bottled water in the back. We need to go. She probably already forgot about you.”

“The bartender basically told me that the club doesn’t usually house dancers. She might be somewhere else tomorrow night.”

“The bartender? No, the soda and water guy. Who cares? This is the sixth club we’ve been to in four days. We’ll probably run into her again if that’s the case.”

“You forgot your belt.” I had stopped listening to Reggie when she approached the table. He got up to let her sit and moved towards the stage past the bachelor party that was still entertaining a couple of the dancers.

“Thank you. But I didn’t forget it. I wanted you to have an excuse to come see me.” Yeah, keep up the smoothness, Mac Daddy.

“I told you I would. What? You didn’t think I’d remember?”

“I just knew you were busy.”

“Yeah, I go on in five minutes.”

“I’m probably leaving soon. Here’s your water.”

“Thanks. So you’re not from Hillsborough, huh?”

“No, North Carolina. I’m just down here for vacation. I just returned from deployment.”

“You a Marine?” She perked up for a moment, hoping I’d confirm her guess.

“No, Army. National Guard.” I sensed a hint of disappointment. Poughs never get any love.

“That’s cool. I bet you seen a lot of shit. What else do you do?”

I could have told her that I was a student at a prestige college and that I had a part-time job as a butcher’s bitch boy that re-stocked the meat racks when the lunchmeat was low and spent my days checking expiration dates and marking down prices. “I’m in the exotic entertainment, too.”

“Really? You a dancer, too?”

“No, I’m an escort. But it’s not like the escort service you here about in the movies or the kind they have in Vegas or New York.” I had looked up escort services on Wikipedia after I had ordered an escort before going to Iraq and all she did was give me a three-minute lap dance when I was expecting a BJ. In Texas, apparently, the profession escort is loosely defined. I should have just crossed the border for a toothless, worm guzzling hooker.

“So you don’t…like sleep with women for money?”

“No, I’m not a gigolo. I usually just show up and dance in small little underwear. Banana hammocks if you will.” She laughed. I laughed. We laughed. My balls vibrated in my sack.

“I’ll have to come up there one day and order you,” she teased. We talked for a couple of more minutes. “I take it Reyna isn’t your real name?” I ask. “No, it’s my stage name. Oh shit, I’m on stage next,” she remembered. “Listen, I gotta go.” She snatched the moist napkin from under my drink. “Here, I’m off tomorrow. Maybe we can hook up and continue this conversation. You can show me your moves,” she teased. She reached in her small pocket book that was only big enough to contain her earnings, lip-gloss, and a pen. Maybe a condom for Mr. Big Shot Sugar Daddy. She pulled out her pen and quickly scribbled on the napkin, avoiding the ring made by the condensation of the cup.

She trotted off and the DJ introduced her, “Fellas, here she comes again. She’s five foot nine and oh, so divine. Give it up for the Latina Heat, Rrrrrreyna!”

How the hell did I just pull that off? I know I’m a good looking guy but God damn she’s a goddess. For the next few seconds I imagined that my God looked like Reyna. I couldn’t wait to die and spoon with God. I snapped back from my daze and realized I had just spent $350 on her in under two hours. Hell, in under two minutes. I continued to gawk at her as she swayed on stage in front of her pinstriped sugar daddy, who was making it rain Franklins. Meanwhile, he bachelor was making it rain vomit on the table next to me before Shrek came and jerked him out of the club.

“You got the number?” asked Reggie.

“Yeah.”

“Good let’s go now, my stomach is gurgling. The last stripper probably thought I was muffling farts.”

Before putting the napkin in my pocket, I examined it for legitimacy, to see if she stepped out of her costume for just a second to let me into her world.

I’d give Hailey a call tomorrow.

COCKTALES

I had just returned from the war. After a year and a half of smoldering desert heat, working day after scouring day, the last thing I wanted to do was go back to working long hours in the meat room for some chump minimum wage. I still had a good ten thousand saved up of Uncle Sam’s tax-free dollars, so I reported back to work just to tell them I was back but I wanted to take a couple of weeks off before I worked again. Plus I had school coming up again and I deserved a break. My supervisor told me it wouldn’t be a problem and offered a recommendation.“Why don’t you head down to Tampa? They got shake joints on every corner.”

I had been away 18 months without even smelling a decent woman, let alone seeing one dressed in nothing but stilettos and fishnets. Well, unless you count the black market skin-a-max DVDs I bought from the locals off the side of the road.

Without haste, I went to my place to plan a relaxing vacation of sun, sand, and debauchery. I called my cousin, Javier, to see if he was interested in joining me. Unfortunately, his fiancé, who was pregnant with his third child, knew us all too well. She knew my intentions and sensed a horrible spiral of events. Hell, in high school, we were the hormonal duo the girls used to hide from. It was said that if you hadn’t fallen victim to one of our charms, you knew someone who did. Whether they’d admit to it or not… well, everyone lies on their dick at some point in their life, right? So anyway, she could pretty much imagine what our itinerary would consist of. I politely asked her if Javi could borrow his balls for a week. But she wasn’t going to risk it and told me to fuck off and enjoy catching herpes B.

Damn it, I needed someone to buy my drinks so I wouldn’t have to spend all of my trick money. Next, I tried McGirt…even though he’s broke. He’d just have me driving around searching for prostitutes to flirt with. I’d heard too many tales about convincing looking transvestites. I didn’t really want to take a chance on having to drop kick a woman in her balls, but I needed a wingman. Of course, he had no money to go and would need me to spot him. Survey says… XX.

As I was thinking of a worthy wingman and navigator for my 18-hour road trip along I-95, one of my ex’s older brother called me up. Even though Reggie’s sister and I didn’t work out, we remained close. We kept in touch for the last five years and occasionally he’d sneak Javi and me into the clubs with him when we were still in high school. This was perfect. Reggie was in his mid-thirties and laid back. Anything that I could possibly put him through would be a rerun for him. Nothing would occur that got him so upset that he couldn’t control himself.

He once dated a stripper who would get drunk after her sets and while he waited for her, she’d purposely flirt with the john sitting next to him in attempts to make him jealous. Firing back, Reggie would go up to the stage and toss 1s on any stripper (with his girl’s money, mind you) and later get some head in the champagne room. Eventually, though, he grew tired of the bar scene one Saturday night, dumped the slore, and ironically found his future wife at church the following Sunday.

I remembered that Reggie had family in Clearwater. “Reg, I’m taking a trip down to Tampa. Want to come?” I prayed he wasn’t too pussy whipped these days to go, or else I’d have to take the trip myself, hoping that my mature-for-my-age looks would bypass being carded at the Publix when I tried to buy some hard lemonade. I was only 20 at this time.

“I’m game, man. When we leaving?” he agreed.

We arrived in Ybor City at 11 in the morning. Mid-day happy hour. We stopped at a few bars and filled up on rumrunners and imported beer at the convenient open-air bars. There’s nothing like Florida air. Right before the daily mid-afternoon rain that washes away the early day’s stress and freshens up the tourists and locals alike for the sunset festivities in the spring nights. The Gulf winds sweeping across to the east, filling the air with that sweet salt mist. The sight of palm trees and lizards gliding up and down the bark puts me in nostalgia of being in the islands. It’s the exoticness of the New World at the heels of America. Poetic ain’t it?

We spent a few hours people watching, flirting with honeys, cruising two miles an hour so everybody saw us. It would have been a lot better if we put any efforts into trying to pick up girls. But by this point, the alcohol was mixing with our fatigue and we were on the brink of incoherency. I had already stumbled over three patio tables and a 6-year-old kid. We needed to make it to Reggie’s cousin house quick to activate Operation Ass-to-Face.

Reggie got us to Tampa by midnight. He took the back roads since we had drank so much and wanted to avoid any inkling of authority as much as possible. Though I had fewer beverages, my tolerance had been much lower due to the dry Arabic culture. Reggie’s cousin, Herm, offered us his guest room and told us that if we were up to it, we could go golfing in the morning. I was in town for booties, not bogies. The only holes I wanted to fill with my balls weren’t made of canisters. I had something better planned, anyways.

I called up this girl I had gone to high school with, who had moved to Brendon after we graduated. We kept in contact while I was away talking a lot about “what ifs”. She always made sure to let me know that if I were to ever in town to call her up. For her, I was the challenge she never conquered. For me, it was warm ups. So at about 1:34 am I put my running shoes and sweatband on.

“You sleeping?”

“Who’s this? It’s like 2 in the morning.”

“1:35 really. It’s Alex.”

“What the hell? Are you back in the States?”

“Yeah. Yours actually.”

“Really? For how long? We should get together for lunch or something tomorrow.”

“It’s technically already tomorrow and we should cut the bullshit. How about we meet now?”

“I gotta work in the morning.”

“I won’t keep you long.” Honestly I wouldn’t. I hadn’t had sex with anyone other than Deborah and Sammie in over a year. Don’t act like you don’t name your hands…"I’m ready to subdue to your will.”

Subdue to your will? What a fucking tool. I really did say that, though. Liquor talk…

“You’re cute. I’m off on Tuesday, so we can hang out tomorrow night.”

“Yeah, OK. Just call me up when you’re ready.”

The next day Reggie and I woke up around 12. Parched and hungry, we skipped showers and drove over to the pizza restaurant on Del Mabry for the lunch buffet. I didn’t hesitate to stack two plates immediately with the imaginative array of pizzas. When I sat down, I couldn’t scarf the food down fast enough. I felt as if I hadn’t eaten for months. I slammed down a whole pitcher of cola. I felt like the Tasmanian Devil from Looney Tunes. Reggie, at a steadier pace, cleared his throat and informed me that our waitress had come over while I was eating with my eyes and had asked if I was taken. “Which one?” I asked as my hunger switched to scavenger hunter. “The black one with the booty.”

She had a slender figure with humble breasts. Large B, could pass for C. And indeed, she had a booty. Her hair was long and pulled back in corn-rows. She had a smooth dark chocolate complexion and hands fit for caressing. She returned to refill my pitcher. “You need some more napkins?” In my gorging and gawking, I had forgotten to wipe my mouth smeared with tomato paste and a strand of cheese connecting my goatee to my inner cheek. She pointed to her chin and giggled, indicating that I had something on my face, you know the gesture. I wiped the marinara from my jowls with my arm hair. I looked at her nametag to make my first line more personal. “Why yes, Diedra, I do. That way you have something to write your number on.” Look, I’m never going to claim I’m some Don Juan, but I do know certain looks in a girl’s eyes, and she had the fucking look in her eye. So, when you see that look, it doesn’t matter if you speak caveman to the chick, you’re going to get from her what she wants more from you.

She smirked before taking our dirtied plates and returning to the kitchen. “Was that the one you used on my sister?” Reggie joked.

“It wasn’t as difficult. All I had to do was unzip my pants for her.”

I hurried to switch topics, as I knew I’d gotten too cocky when I saw Reggie’s expression change. “I’ve never really picked up a random chic. I usually meet my girlfriends or acquaintances through other people.”

It’s true. Before Facebook, I was like a real live social networking player. But Reggie reminded me that I had just gotten back from being around an abundance of sausage and not enough roast beef lips, “You should be functioning on instincts.”

This was true. Maybe it wasn’t the look in her eyes that had my hormones revving. Maybe it was Darwin’s sexual instinct of the fittest—because the Catholic Church probably published his books, don’t feel stupid if you never got a chance to learn this part of Darwinism. It’s true, though, I promise.

The waitress returned with fresh plates and napkins. She hadn’t written her number on the top one. I was convinced I was lame. But I didn’t expect it to work anyway. I had some ass lined up later and money to spend on strippers I’d never see again and who’d forget me within three steps of walking away. After placing our plates down, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “We have clean bathrooms.” I watched her walk back toward the kitchen, but turned right to go into the bathroom. She began to untie her apron as she walked in.

“What did she say?” Reggie asked.

“I’ll be back.”

I still wasn’t old enough to go into clubs, but I’d heard of bathroom stall hookups. This was my JV to repetitive feats of that years from now. I pushed the door open and saw a pair of shoes underneath the furthest stall, the one with the handle bars beside the toilet, with an “Out of Order” sign hanging from the door. I locked the door behind me and walked into the stall.

She wrapped her arms around my neck and began kissing me feverishly. She kissed my neck, sucked my… lower lip, a little nibble to the left ear, back to my neck. I pressed her against the tiled wall and began to unbutton her white dress shirt. I moved my hand inside her shirt reaching for her bra hooks. I tried something I had envisioned in my mind many times before; I went to unhook her bra with one flick of my fingers. I thought this would be a real smooth move. It couldn’t get any worse, I was already getting it in.

It worked. I fondled her breasts and softly twisted her nipples. Is that even arousing, I wondered? What can you really do with nipples besides lick them and maybe the occasional light bite? She began unzipping my pants and reached in. I was correct; her hands were built for caressing. I began to unbutton her pants and slid them down to her thigh where they fell on command.

As we stood there finger banging each other* through our underwear, I could feel her getting really moist. I rubbed a little harder. I wanted all that wetness to seep through and in between my fingers. I was almost certain I wouldn’t get to penetrate her. I just knew I’d end up cumming on myself first.

Then something stung my nostrils. An odorous rust smell. Pungent, like fish washed up on the beach baking in the sun, mixed with sweaty feet. I looked down and pulled my fingers out. Before I looked at them, I caught a glimpse of the embarrassed look on her face. Oh fuck!

My fingers were smeared with blood and the front of her panties was stained dark red with an orange tint ring around it. “What…the fuck!?”

“It doesn’t bother me, if it doesn’t bother you,” she said with a grimace.

I was dumbfounded. This had happened to me before. Kind of… bu that's another story I won’t tell. Let’s just say I’ve already earned my red wings.

I stormed out of the stall, slamming its door behind me. The acoustics of the bathroom reverberated the clang. I struggled to snap the other door unlock and forcibly pulled it open. I marched towards the table, trying to zip my pants up with one hand.

Reggie looked confused and impressed all at once. “I already got the check, playa.” He looked at my blood stained hand.. and pants. "Holy shit, are you ok? What happened?"

“Let’s go.”

I grabbed the napkins.

*I finger banged her, there was nothing on me that she finger banged. Just for clarification.

Story Within A Story

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter to "Banana Hammocks." For the B-Side of this fictional memoir/tell all/bio fic, every Thursday will feature a new "Cocktale." Yeah, that's spelled correctly. In true Tucker Max homage, these tales will recount some of Alex's not-so-proud moments of debauchery. Again, if you are not 18, have a weak heart (or stomach), or are too stuck up to enjoy a good dick and fart joke, DO NOT read these. As always, enjoy!

Cheers,

O.R.

Banana Hammocks - Chapter 1

"Welcome"

“Who’s this good looking guy?” Brett asked. Although he gave me the interlocked-thumbs handshake, I knew right then that my fears had been confirmed: All male strippers ARE queer.

Brett Lee seemed more like a stowaway than a stripper. He dressed in sun-washed visors with a golden fish hook clipped to it, a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt marked with beer bottles of the world, beige cargo shorts, and beach worn flip-flops. He by far matched the photos I’d seen of him on the website prior to coming into the office of Men In Heat. In the pictures, he was portrayed more like an Adonis for desperate women. Not this guy standing in front of me. He had a thin chinstrap styled beard that mixed into his disheveled haircut with platinum highlights and two sterling silver bullring earrings. His freshly shaved chest displayed an artificial tan somewhere between sunburn and orange. When he turned his body to the left to shake my hand, I caught a gleam of sterling silver barred nipple rings and sported a beach-bum shell necklace that wore more like a choker. He was barely six-feet and had the build of a wrestler. It was obvious he spent more time working out his torso rather than evening out his physique. Tattoos slithered around his left arm and worked into a sleeve. None of the art really flowed together. On his forearm he had a red, orange, and green dragon wrapped around a purple and yellow mushroom that was back-dropped by a skull with blue eyes still left in the socket. Clasping the back of the forearm were Asian surfers taking on a pipeline of lava flowing out of a sewage pipe that was connected to a waterfall splashing onto a river bend fading into his elbow on the other side. Only the heavy Cuban-link silver bracelet where the LSD inspired body art ended looked normal on his arm.

Wait a minute…is that eyeliner?

“What’s going on man? I'm Alex,” I responded. I went back to listening to Sheri, the secretary for Men In Heat.

“This is just formalities, since technically it is a business, but I’ll need you to fill out this W-2. Don’t worry about putting your social,” she told me. The office of Men In Heat was housed in a duplex that was restored with an 800 square-foot dance studio that also served as a garage for the owners other business, Max Rides, a limousine rental company used for legitimacy. The office resembled more of a tune-up garage waiting room.

“Oh, have you thought about your stage name?” Sheri asked. She was short and stoutly, in her late twenties with strawberry blonde shoulder-length hair, freckled sunburnt chubby face with cold blue eyes. Not that she made direct eye contact with me. She was more occupied checking out Brett and Leon as they talked what I guess in this business is… well, business. At the same time Leon, effortlessly talking at Brett, was handing checks to Ricky and Bryan.

Leon was the stripper manager, the he-pimp. He was less animated than Brett. He was of either Spanish or a half-bred Hawaiian. He was only five-foot seven-inches with jet black hair, but I also noticed he had all black RockWorld strapped boots on that easily added three inches. Leon seemed more conservative in his natural person. No drug-aged tattoos, no piercings, no eyeliner. He had gotten the position because he had worked at some high-profile male exotic dancing company down in Lauderdale before. I wasn’t impressed.

“Why not go with Alex? That’s a sexy name already,” Leon stopped his impromptu meeting to make an executive suggestion. My fear grew stronger.

“Actually, I was thinking Rico. I rather people not know my real name.” On the 30 minute ride here, I had given my name a lot of thought. As a matter of fact, I was sure that was going to be my new identity, my get-rich-quick alter ego. I had been in Florida the week before and experienced an array of gentlemen’s club and decided that if the ladies can put themselves through school taking their clothes off, I could too. That actually sounds gay when I put it that way. But I was over being some chump. I was a butcher’s

apprentice and couldn’t juggle the long night hours immediately after class and going back to studying when I got off at midnight. I was hoping I’d be quasi-successful at doing this stripping thing so that I could cut back some of my hours at the shop.

My best friend Marie had her own side gig going on that made me want to further get involved in the sex industry. She sold sex toys and as an extra incentive for her customers at her toy parties, she would hire one of these male strippers during her transactions at the end, skimming a little off the “show-up” fee. When I returned from my trip and told her about my idea, she gave me the number of her biggest customer, Sheri. This brings us to two days ago when I called Sheri. She too eagerly told me to come in Monday evening.

“Whoa, no go man. We already have a Rico,” Leon informed me.

“He’s only here maybe…what? Twice a year?” Ricky reminded Leon. Ricky Evans, was a short, stocky guy with blue eyes, a buzz cut, and a construction workers physique. He wore a wife beater to reveal his

screaming skull and spine tattoo that draped down his 18-inch bicep. “Besides, last time he danced, he was introduced as JX. What the fuck is a JX?”

“Jacksonville. It’s where he’s headlining now,” Leon answered. “He called me last week and told me some lady took him down to Daytona and bought him the Ninja he wanted,” Bryan reported. “Looks like someone upped her status to Sugar Mama,” Brett replied. “Fuck it, Leon. Let the new kid have it. I’m telling you, Rico is exotic, fresh, and sexy.”

He winked at me.

I wondered if my fear was evident by now. I was more offended than disappointed that this average Joe of a he-pimp was ruining my sex-symbol transformation plans. I looked around the room at my future co-workers to get a better idea for the perfect name. There was Brett Lee, the chiseled cabin boy. Lance Daze, the “Bad Boy” who kind of resembled Christian Slater. Brandon the rock star, long blonde hair lean and cut. Bryan, the “Sicilian Sizzler.” Don’t ask me how someone with strawberry blonde hair can be referred to as Sicilian. Ricky Evans, the nice guy. And then there was the legend of Mr. Twinkles, the middle aged veteran. Story has it; he had actually died on the dance floor. No one bothered to tell me the story, really. But that’s what I gathered from his framed picture and a news clipping of an attack hanging on the wall like some kind of shrine. There were a few other guys in the office that came to the weekly meeting hoping to be the sixth man on the list for one of the shows, but I couldn’t keep up with the names and faces.

“Well, just think it over. I really think you should go with another name,” Leon insisted.

Just then, the door slowly swung open. In slow motion. As all the guys turned their heads in sync. And in walked the creepiest, bone chilling specimen of a man you’d ever seen. Randy Jacobs, the owner of Men In Heat and Max Rides. Actually, the door flew open and almost came off one of the hinges. Not because he was that badass, but because this office was falling apart. He was scrawny, actually, with a 1973 porn ‘stache. In the 80s he danced under “Ravishing” Randy and hasn’t cut his mullet or the vagina juice flavor savor since. He had only danced for three years but was a DJ in the local clubs when male dancing first took off in 83. Randy had seen better days, I’m sure. Not many grown ass men can pull the corduroy

shorts that measured half-thigh and a stained V-neck T-shirt look. Well, he wasn’t really pulling it off either. Along with being introduced to the world of exotic entertainment, Randy had also gotten acquainted with the blow that came with it. Founding Men In Heat was a way to support his hard-to-die habit.

“What’s up Randy?” Brett half asked. You could sense a distain in Brett’s voice as he didn’t give Randy much of a second thought.

“What’s going on boss man?” Leon took more of the kiss-ass approach.

“Who’s fucking piece of shit is that in my lot?” Randy asked in his not-so-tough-guy voice.

“Um, that’s Dexter’s car. He couldn’t get it to start and supposed to be coming in today with Lance to pick it up and along with his ‘last paycheck.’ His words,” Sheri reported the facts about the POS car in the lot.

Before Randy could go on, Leon had to fix the shit smear on his nose. “Hey Randy, it’s all good. Renee was cool and I reassured her that we wouldn’t book Dexter there again.” Leon was filling Randy in on the latest news about the Ten-Gallon and Rye club. Apparently, Dexter had picked up a customer out of the seat and had her legs wrapped around his waist, gyrating her in mid-air. Leon had sat him out for the last hour and Dexter stormed out of the dressing room, but not before throwing the ice bucket and water bottles across the room. He didn’t think he should have been punished for “waking up the crowd” that made it rain 5s, 10s, and 20s on the dance floor after his thrilling cowboy act.

Now let me stop here a minute. If you continue on with my story, just be warned that the world of man-stripping has more drama than an episode of “The Hills.”

“I’m not so sure we’re gonna book that sonofbitch anywhere after that bullshit. I don’t need that shit,” Randy commanded.

“Randy, meet Rico. The new guy,” perked Sheri.

“Alex,” Leon corrected her.

Randy tried hard to put on a professional demeanor after realizing an outsider had seen his true colors. “Hey brother, you’re a good looking dude. Maybe you can take Dexter’s spot.”

Okay, let’s just stop right here. Again. You have to understand something. Growing up, I was taught that a man never gave another man a compliment about his looks. No handsome, no awesome, no cute, no good looking, and definitely no sexy! A man doesn’t even compliment another man’s wife, unless it’s about her cooking. The only compliments shared were about materialistic belongings or children. “Victor, were’d you get the money to buy that beautiful mustang? And look at your beautiful children. God bless them.” End. I was convinced that orientation lines were blurred and overconfidence reigned in the exotic dancing underworld, either that or these guys were openly flaming.

Unpause.

“I’m just trying to make some honest money, Sir,” I coughed out.

“You here this guy? Honest money, ha!” All the guys followed along with Randy in laughter. Except Brett.

“If it ain’t that muthafucka Brett Leeeeeeeeeee!” An annoying blare came from the front door as Lance Daze walked in. Dexter following. Lance was a six-foot skinny character with little definition in his physique. But he reeked of arrogance. He had a stiff walk; shoulders up, chest out, chin down, with heavy stomping steps of a lumberjack. Lance was 145 lbs. Dexter was five-nine with a thicker build that was covered by is oversized football jersey and baggy shirt. He had the face for Hollywood, but the mouth for cologne ads. He walked with a more relaxed limp that resembled more of a skip mixed with stepping on a loose shoe string. Something like the “Malibu’s Most Wanted” walk. No really. Don’t be hating.

Randy gave them both an evil eye. “Hey man, I just want to get my money and my car and I’m out.” Dexter walked past Randy directly to Leon with his hand out and a testing look in his eye. Leon handed him his last check while Randy made sure to put his authority to use. “Now don’t come back looking for work after you fall flat on your ass, asshole. What kinda idiot breaks the rules… the laws like that? You fuckin’ moron.”

“Randy, I had her in my hands man. I wasn’t gonna let her fall,” Dexter pleaded his case. “I set off the show anyway, you should be thanking my ass.”

“It’s not the point. I can’t have that. You put us all in danger.”

“Man, whatever. Looks like the decision has been made, right? So why we still talking?” Dexter flexed and stepped up to Randy.

‘Let me talk to you man,” Brett intervened putting his hand on Dexter’s shoulder and leading him outside. “I’ll talk to him, Randy.”

Randy retired up the stairs to his office/apartment. Ricky and Bryan were huddling the rest of the guys into the garage for rehearsal. Ricky grabbed a set of keys from Sheri to move the limo out of the garage to make room. Bryan informed the guys that he and Leon had been practicing a West Side Story act for the next show.

Leon was the last one to file into the garage. He stopped at at the threshold as I bumped into him following the rest of the guys. “Hey, go ahead and finish up the paper work with Sheri. We’re only going to practice for 15 minutes today.” I nodded. “Meet us at The HotBox on Tuesday so you can see one of our shows. You know where that is?” I didn’t know where exactly it was but I had heard the radio commercials before advertising ‘Ladies Night, every Tuesday’ before. But I acted like I knew what and where he was talking about. “And really think of another name. Don’t be a dick rider.” I couldn’t tell at the time if that was sound advice or a diss. But I figured it was the former.

As I walked out, I was a little relieved to know that I’d have a whole day to conjure up a catchier name. “Do all stage names have to include stage last names?” I stopped and asked Sheri. “Oh, not at all! It’s an ego thing. The bigger the ego, the longer the name,” she whispered. “Welcome to the world of male stripping!”

It's Here, It's Time!

After over a month of just sitting here scratching my taint and then sniffing my fingers, I now present to you "Banana Hammocks" (formerly "Bragging Rights") - the bio-fictional memoir of an exotic male dancer. Look for a new chapter each Wednesday...

Enjoy!