Charm City Porn Star
My life as a Stripper
After I got home, I was still pulling crumpled bills out of the crack of my ass. This made me feel cheap until I saw there was a $50 and a $20 in there.
Published: July 3, 2013
One of my other adventures into sexuality for commerce involved my time as a male stripper. I was a “Goldenrod” (yep, “Goldenrod”) dancer at the Gold Club on Route 40 in Baltimore. Like most all-male revues, the Gold Club was ordinarily a club that featured female strippers, with the exception of the one night a week when a separate, but very nice room was set aside for ladies’ night.
I was a little put off by the less-than-savory neighborhood the club was located in. I was told to park across the highway, in the 24-hour porn store parking lot. Great. I’m sure no shady shit went on in THAT parking lot. I had my all my male-stripper accoutrements (my costumes, my towels, my baby oil, pharmaceuticals, etc.) packed in a little rolling suitcase and I always felt like that old video game Frogger whenever I tried crossing the always-busy freeway with my cumbersome load in tow. This particular club also had a pit beef stand in front of it that was always as busy as could be. I would walk past all the customers, all the fat dudes with barbecue sauce dripping down the front of their Ravens T-shirts, and they would always look at me curiously and ultimately, I guessed, they just figured I was dropping off stuff for my girlfriend or some chick stripping there. Nope, tonight it was me shaking my “moneymaker.”
The club itself was far nicer and cleaner inside than you would expect. It looked like a typical strip club, well lit, all brass rails and mirrors, but there was a staircase that led down from the male dressing area and the DJ booth to the stage that gave it a nice air of theater. As I hauled my gear up the steps to the dressing room there were always girls who had arrived early to scope out the dancers. I always made sure to give them a wink and to start doing some recon to see where the big tipper$ were going to be.
When I pushed the thin curtain back and stepped into the dressing area, I never knew what I was going to see, especially once I realized that some of the dancers liked to masturbate backstage before they went on.
It was actually an elaborate pre-show ritual. First, they would masturbate to erection, then they would wrap it in gauze and secure it to give the illusion of a monster horsecock, covered only by a flimsy loincloth, which maintains the illusion of erection while dancing (blood is flowing to too many other places for that to really happen).
Once I made it past the phalanx of phalli, I would set up in a back cubicle and check in with the short, white, older dancer who ran the whole thing. His name was Ted and he had been a male stripper in the ’80s. He was in great shape for his age, but there was something sad about a guy in his mid-50s still doing ’80s aerobic exercise moves onstage to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” The other white guys weren’t much better. One tried to look like Michael Jackson (I shit you not), another had a pot belly and missing teeth, and a third would actually do (gasp!) pole tricks!
I remember how nervous I was when I first waited to pull the curtain back at the top of the steps and make my grand entrance to the stripper stage. I used to like to do a quick blast of “Columbian Marching Powder” from a pocket rocket before I went on. Bright lights, big city, and all that, y’know.
At first, I danced to music that suited my heavy-metal tastes (“California” by Alice in Chains and “American Witch” by Rob Zombie) but eventually I started to dance to more and more hip-hop (“Bottoms Up” by Trey Songz, “Make It Rain” by Fat Joe) because, hey, I had to try to curry favor with the mostly black audience as much as I could (even though they were mainly into black dancers) and the white girls liked shaking there asses to it too. Every now and again, I’d sneak in a dance-pop song here and there, if the lyrics were dirty enough. I once danced for this bachelorette and sang the lyrics of “Tonight I’m Fucking You” by Enrique Iglesias and, well, let’s just say that her wedding almost didn’t happen. I’m here to tell you: For a male, there is nothing that can compare to a crowd of horny women screaming for you because you are turning them on so much. That might be surprising to hear coming from a porn star, because, unlike a male stripper, I actually get to have sex with the girls I work with now. But it still doesn’t compare to that instant-gratification ego-stroke of stripping for crazy girls . . . and then they give you money! When you are on that stage and taking off your clothes and the women yell their enthusiasm ever louder and they stretch out their fingers toward you aching for just. . . one. . . touch. Well, it really is most sublime.
We didn’t do a choreographed all-dance-together like you saw in Magic Mike. We had our three-song stage set and then two “walkarounds” where we gave lap dances to the ladies.
The downside? Well, one night after I got home, I was still pulling crumpled bills out of the crack of my ass. This made me feel cheap until I saw there was a $50 and a $20 in there. One night I even went home with close to $500.
But eventually I got fed up and finally just totally lost interest because I had bigger plans and a far, far more lucrative and far-reaching career in porn waiting for me in Los Angeles. And oddly, after experiencing both, surprisingly, the egos of male strippers are in outer orbit compared to male porn stars (and believe me, that’s saying a lot!).
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