“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.”
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!”
