Backstage At Chippendales (7 page)

Sex with the customers was a regular thing at Chippendales. The guys would often take advantage of the lusty amorous mood of some of the cuter gals in the crowd.  One of the first times I walked into the men’s bathroom way back when I was a host, I recall two of the bathroom stalls being occupied by TWO persons each, with moans of ecstasy emitting forth as the throes of passion were being reached
inside each toilet stall
. 
Basically, if you wanted to piss, there were urinals, but God help you if you had to drop a deuce, because the bathroom toilet stalls were almost always occupied by lust-crazed couples doing the deed. 

But there were
also
many dark, private areas near the stage that allowed for just such sexual joinders.  Pretty soon, I was among the purveyors of sex and carnality on the Chippendales premises.  Here is one of the more humorous romantic entanglements I enjoyed:

Stage Right—just out of view from the audience.  Sklorch! Sklorch! Sklorch!  This was the sound I heard, loud as the show’s music itself.  Yes, here was this hot ‘n dirty ‘schoolgirl’ looking beauty doling me out the
BJ
of a lifetime; she was so into pleasing me that her eager, thrusting mouth kept pushing be into the side stage curtain.  I was nearing climax when suddenly

her thrusting went too far--before I knew it I was tipping backwards through the curtain and onto the fully lit stage.  As if that were not enough, the dancer onstage, Gary, was at that very moment, performing a “pull and thrust” move, stage right, not one foot from where I had stood, such that as I fell, I slipped none-too-gracefully into his outstretched arms.  As this was not part of the choreographed routine, Gary, looking baffled, quickly backed away as I tumbled the rest of the way onto the floor.  So there I lay, mortified, jaw dropped, pants down, dick up, and dignity all but gone, for all the world to see.  The room went silent and every face in the audience seemed plastered with the same look of shock and wonderment, momentarily unsure whether this was part of the act.  But I daresay that no one, save perhaps Gary, was quite as surprised as me.

Now you’d think I would have got in a lot of trouble for this fiasco, but I didn’t.  I didn’t get fired—I didn’t even get a slap on the wrist.  Things like that happened all the time at Chippendales.  Unless the vice squad was there to say different, none of this was any big deal.  We were kids in a candystore, and though I didn’t know it at the time, life would never be better than it was back in my days with Chippendales.

Chapter Eighteen

                          
One of my more pleasant recollections o
f being a waiter came on a very
slow Thursday night at the Stock Exchange.  I had the worst section, in the far back…so my section in the rear didn’t fill up at all till just before the show began.  I only had one table, and I was fortunate to have it at all.  I got lucky—it was a bachelorette party, and they were primed already, and they’d come in a limousine to boot, so they were all ready to continue drinking and tipping heavily, as luck would have it. 

These girls went on a binge of screaming orgasms, (a popular drink there at the club…really anything with sexual innuendo to it was always popular at Chippendales…sex-on-the-beach, blowjobs, slippery nipples, slow-comfortable-screws, slow-comfortable-screws-up-against-the-walls, orgasms of all types…you name it.)  They were there to get fuck-ed up…and I obliged them—happily.  And I happily took their money, too. 

             
One of them, in particular, Lisa, (not the bachelorette,) had taken quite a liking to me.  I was receiving more tips from her (and more gropes) than from any of the other gals, who themselves were all quite frisky as well.  I got the bachelorette up on stage for an embarrassing serenade from Bernie, so that bumped my level of appreciation from the party way up…as well as my tips.  Its nice to take care of your ladies, you know? 

After the show, the group all continued partying, and Lisa and I got to talking together.  Suddenly, Lisa gave a furtive look around, as if to see if any of her friends were watching, then grasped my hand in hers, and pulled me up out of my chair and away towards the front door of the nightclub.  “Where are we going?” I asked.  “You’ll see,” Lisa said, as if we were on some very important mission.  She hurriedly led me out the front door, down the steps and across the street to their waiting limousine. There, she opened the righthand rear door, climbed in and pulled me inside with her.  The driver, who was sitting inside, was taken by surprise and thought that perhaps the party was ready to go.  “On your way home?” he queried. 

“Uh, no.” Lisa replied. 

“So, where are the other girls, then?” the driver asked. 

“They’re still inside,” Lisa said. 

Just then, the driver noticed ME sitting next to Lisa.  “OH!” he said, a bit embarrassed, “I think it’s time for me to take a break now!” And at that, the driver fumbled for his cigarettes, and hurriedly got out of the limo, and said, just before closing the door, “You kids have fun!”

Now that we were alone, Lisa asked me if I wanted a drink, and I responded, “Sure, I’ll have a shot of whiskey…in fact, I’ll have a double.”   Lisa quickly poured me a triple, and I had scarcely downed it when she was

on top of me, thrusting her tongue in and out of my mouth.  I felt her nimble hand go right for my manhood, and I saw that her other hand was snaking off her own panties from beneath her skirt.  This girl works fast, I thought.  I wasn’t wearing any G-string or underwear this particular night, (commando!) so this was going to be easy…all I had to do was unsnap my fannypack with my money in it and pull down my spandex trousers, which I did.  Lisa slid up her skirt, and before I knew it, I was inside her, with her on the back seat of the limo, I kneeling on the floor.  The limo was rocking away as Lisa wrapped her beautiful, tan legs around my waist, our lips locked and our tongues twirling around one another.  We humped with urgent ardor, conscious that we would soon be missed.  Soon she was whispering in my ear, “I want you to come in me, Greg!  Come in me!  Come inside of me!”  That did it for me…soon I was shooting load after load of my hot juices into her hot punani…Jeezus she felt good. 

             
Afterward, Lisa and I stepped back out of the limousine, and the driver was standing there, arms clasped, staring straight ahead (deliberately away from us), looking as professional as humanly possible, doing his level best not to grin, and Lisa and I just booked it right back into the nightclub.  We didn’t try to pretend that we hadn’t
just fucked
or anything…we were just like, ‘yeah,
we just fucked
—so what of it?’

When we got back into the club, it appeared that either none of her friends had noticed that Lisa and I had been gone—or none of them cared.  I didn’t care which—they weren’t my friends.  All I cared about was that Lisa and I had just had the perfect lusty limousine love affair.

So one night after the show, I’m partying at the Stock Exchange with my girlfriend, Ellen, and some other gals.  I had met Ellen at Chippendales just a month earlier.  Now Ellen had gotten horribly bitchy since getting her new D-cup breast implants the week before, and I was planning on dumping her, but “The Experiment” isn’t about that.

I was asked to give a ride home to a friend of a friend of mine’s who had been stranded at Chippendales by her friends, a pretty, married gal by the name of Jeannette.  Ellen and I drove our cars parallel for about thirty minutes, until Ellen, her car bursting full of friends, took one freeway and I kept going in order to take this gal home.  I was supposed to meet up with Ellen at her house later, after she’d dropped her friends off. 

Now I had been chatting up this gal, innocently enough, the whole time, but as soon as Ellen and her carload full of friends broke away on the other freeway, I decided to try a little “experiment” just to see what all I could get away with these days, Chippendales stud that I was.  In a husky tone, I said to Jeannette, “Take off your underwear.”

Jeannette, turns to me and says, “What?!?”

“You heard me,” I said in a deep, suave tone again, “take off your underwear.”  And you know what?  She DID!  So I continued, “Now I want you to slide your hand down between your legs and start playing with

yourself.”   And you know what?  She DID!  I couldn’t believe that I was getting away with this, but by golly, I was, so I continued the charade a bit further.

“Oooohhhhhhhh….” Jeannette moaned, as she continued to play with herself.  When I pulled off the freeway at her exit, I told Jeannette that I was going to pull over somewhere near her house.  Jeannette suggested a nearby park, and we pulled in under a tree.  I continued my authoritarian tone, which it was obvious was turning her on…Jeannette did everything I told her to do, and with gusto.  Finally, we ended up fucking in the passenger’s seat.  When we finished, I pulled up to her apartment complex, and Jeannette and I kissed goodbye, and she went on into her home, and out of my life.

I was already late in getting to Ellen’s but I noticed that my hands, (and probably my dick…I didn’t know), smelt of pussy.  So, I decided to stop at a hamburger place for burger and use of the bathroom to give myself a quick wash.  The burger was fine, but the bathroom was out of order, so it was a stack of wetnaps for me.  But even after the wetnaps, my hands smelled of wetnaps and pussy! So I ordered a nachos with jalapenos and smeared the jalapenos all over my hands. (I would have to duck into Ellen’s bathroom to rinse my dick off again…I was not about to smear jalapenos on

my dick.)  Afterwards, I smelt my hands again: no dice—wetnaps, jalapenos…and pussy.

I went to Ellen’s house, arriving some 45 minutes late, and I don’t think she bought the excuse I gave about stopping for a burger.  “Look, I’ve got jalapeno cheese on my shirt!” (I’d made sure to slop some sauce on my shirt for just such evidentiary proof).  Ellen and I broke up soon after that.  I’ll always remember Ellen, but until this writing, Ellen never could be too sure what had happened that night of my secret “experiment.”

I’ll always remember the day that the owner of the club, Steve Bannerjee, “called me up to the big leagues” and I became a full-fledged dancer.  It was a night like any other at the world-famous nightclub. I was talking to a group of ladies before the show, when Steve approached. He pulled me aside and matter-of-factly whispered “we want you to do a little number”, deftly shoving a business card into my hand.  “Call her on Monday, her name’s Kat. She’ll give you the details.” 

I did call on Monday and was instructed to show up to the dance studio that very afternoon.  When I arrived, I recognized several other Chippendales dancers there, as well as one other guy who was not a dancer, my friend Tohr, who, it turned out, had also been promoted alongside me and was to be in the same dance number as I was.   Tohr and I began our training not with a specific dance routine, but with rhythm exercises to get used to eight-count patterns in dance.  It sounds simple enough, but it wasn’t, at least for me it wasn’t.  Now I have to tell you, this really pissed me off, because all these other dancers were not educated as I was, and I had, up until then, I must confess, thought somewhat less of them for it. I was wrong.  These working class guys had no trouble remembering various choreographed steps and moves, all to specific eight counts, while I, with my

ginormous IQ, couldn’t for the life of me “get it,” not even to the relatively simple practice sets.  This would set the tone for my entire reign as a dancer—I, frankly, would never be a very talented dancer—I would never get those damned eight counts.

Fast forward one week, I practiced and practiced at home.  Our number was a “surf-stud” number entitled “Kokomo” to the tune of the Beach Boys song.  There were three of us, and we were all supposed to do the act, all moving in unison, which made it all the harder, mainly because I kept sucking.  I kept on practicing, but I really didn’t get any better.  The day of my debut arrived, and I’ll tell you, I was scared. 

7 P.M. Judgment Night.  I arrive at the nightclub, nervous, but feeling somewhat prepared. With a little luck, I just might pull this off.  I immediately began going over the steps and eight counts in my mind. Already I noticed my nerves getting the better of me, and I considered having a shot or two before my number came up, but decided against it, for the moment.

9 P.M. Judgment Night.  Holy Crap. Of all the nights.  Here comes my SISTER MARY AND MY COUSIN GRANT to visit me during my dubious dancing debut!  (See the picture on the bookcover for a pic of me and Mary that night).  Did I have time for this?  Well, frankly, yes, I

welcomed the distraction for a bit.  I found them a good table and thanked them for coming.  They had no idea that this was to be my first night as a dancer.  Just the added pressure I needed!  Frankly, I don’t think it mattered, I was already at MAX pressure as far as that went…I really don’t think I could have become any more of a basket case that night.

10 P.M.  Judgment Night.  The list of routines reads “Chair” and then “Kokomo” …and “Chair” is halfway through. We’re next.  Gary and Tohr are side stage, perfectly calm, decked out in their electric orange and green tank tops, I’m in yellow…shaking…trying to go over the routine in my head, but I’m a total blank.  Oh God, I’m a total blank! Feigning coolness, I turn to Tohr and ask, “You ready?” “You bet, homey” he replies, without a quiver in his voice. Though he wasn’t the highly educated fellow I was, Tohr had picked up the steps of the routine quite easily, and he was a good dancer.  He hadn’t anything to worry about, I expect.  Gary, an old hand at stage dancing was apparently examining the state of his manicure at that moment…not a care in the world.  I realized now, seconds from sure doom, that I was definitely not prepared for my debut as a Chippendales dancer.  I also realized that I should NOT have passed on that drink awhile ago…drink, or
drinks
…
many drinks
I could use right about now. Yes, that’s for sure. Many drinks.  Oh boy.  Here goes nothing. And I do mean nothing. 

Holy crap.  I was about to become a Chippendales DANCER.  Gulp! Fart! (oops!)

As the prior routine finishes, the curtain closes and all three of us lumbered upwards onto the stage with our surfboards in tow. My stomach is all butterflies. I can only remember the first two eight-count steps, and I can only hope and pray that the next thirty or so eight counts will magically materialize in my brain as needed.  The curtain opens. The lyrics from the song “Kokomo” begin to play.

“Aruba…Jamaica...Ooh I wanna take ya!”
  Step-forward, turn-right, sidestep-left. 

“Bermuda…Bahama…Come on pretty mama!”
  Hip-thrust-right, turn-to-the-front.

“Key Largo, Montego, Baby why don’t we go...”
  Hip-thrust-front, hip-thrust-front.

“On the Florida Keys, there’s a place called Kokomo...”
   Oh-shit, I-don’t-know-what-to-do…oh-jeez-the-other-guys…are-frowning-at-me-while…they-hip-thrust-at-me…oh-shit-everybody-can-tell…I’ve-forgotten-everything!

I was so scared I must have looked like a malfunctioning wind-up tin soldier up there…and if you chose to see past that whole trainwreck, you

could also tell that I was scared shitless, of course.  As we rumbled off the stage, I made up my mind then and there, to drink heavily before doing the routine next time…well, that and to actually LEARN the routine. Boy did I ever suck as a dancer! But I sucked that night, and, it turns out, every night thereafter. I always sucked, but God love ‘em, the women had pity on me, and I always made money anyway. God bless the women and God bless Chippendales!