Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Video Blogs (VLOGS)

Lately several readers have e-mailed me asking why I do not posts video blogs of myself on Youtube or here. The thought has crossed my mind before, but the consequence of posting my face on video for the world to see may come back and smack me in the face later.

As of now, the only part of me that the world sees is my writing and a few obscure pictures, of which I crop out my face. You don't see my face, hear my voice, or watch my mannerisms, and that's the way I like it. I don't want people to know my stories and background at my full time job or in my professional life. I don't want to tarnish my reputation at a future job because I talked about the getting my dick sucked by two women at a party. I just don't want the fame that may come with video blogs, especially if I don't get the money with it.

The reason I started this blog is to have an outlet for my life---a life which I hide from many people. At first, I wanted to find stories that paralleled mine, so I searched the web for stories of other male strippers. My search only yielded a few dismal results. The only consistent blog I found was barely coherent---the guy seemed drunk when he typed down his experiences. I could not find a decent book on the subject either. So I took to writing. Through writing, I can tell my stories and be anonymous at the same time, like a confession.

This blog started out small, and it only received a dozen hits a month at the most. Now my web traffic has ballooned into thousands of readers a month. I had never expected this, nor have I expected a demand for my stories. For everyone who takes the time to read my stories, I am thankful. For those readers who are critical of my experience, I am thankful as well because criticism can help one realize personal flaws. As long as there is a demand for my stories, I will continue to write. As of this time, however, I will not be doing any video blogs. But if you have any other requests, then don't hesitate to ask. The worst thing I can say is "no."

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

The Beginning - Part 2: Sculpting the Body

Continued from The Beginning: Part 1

I remembered my first real workout at the college gym very clearly. Tall, hulking men with rippling muscles filled the gym, grunting in anger and slamming weights around like they wanted to destroy something. Their menacing glares gave me the impression that I would become lunch meat if I ever made the mistake to cross their path. I felt like a cub stepping onto grizzly territory. Yet, I made sure to avoid them while I tried every machine.

As I made a lame attempt at working out, my lanky limbs struggled with the small iron plates. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I tried every single machine that day. Before I knew it, three hours had passed. My legs quivered as I left the gym. That night, I discovered new sensations in muscles that I never existed. Sharp jabs of pain that shot throughout my whole body. I couldn't sleep. When sleep finally came, I woke up the next morning sore and stiff, each small movement bringing pure agony. However, I loved this new feeling. I knew that this soreness meant that my muscles were growing. Growing bigger was my biggest desire. I would have done almost anything to grow out of my skinny frame. Thus, I became addicted to lifting weights.

I began to live at the gym. Weight lifting became more than a routine; it was a religion. I memorized its scripture: reps, sets, super-sets, squats, presses, deadlifts. Whenever I wasn't in class, I was in the gym bench pressing, or squatting. I bought books and magazines on bodybuilding, and studied them more than the textbook for my classes. Instead of going out to bars or clubs, I spent my free time at the gym.

Of course, the gym provided some difficulties. One of the regulars, a bald jock-type, decided he didn't like me. His name was Chris, and he reminded me of one of those bullying football players from various nerd revenge movies. He always wanted to use whichever machine, bench, or squat rack I was using, and would snap at me to hurry up. I always gave him a polite answer, and scrambled out of his way to provide him with whatever he wanted, but he only responded by staring me down. Another time when I was squatting inside the squat rack, my legs cramped and gave way, causing me to fall and drop the weighted barbell. The safety bars caught the barbell, but it made a loud crash of metal on metal that caused everyone in the gym to jump and turn their heads toward me. Chris, who was working out nearby, shouted, "You better not break it, or you'll have to pay for it."

"Sorry," I said.

"You better be," he said. "That shit hurt my ears. Fuckin' idiot."

I felt a mixture of anger and shame. I wanted to say something back to him, but I froze in place. A black guy, seeing our exchange, came over and offered to spot me. The sympathy on his face told me that he felt sorry for me and wanted to help, but I already felt foolish.

It was days like this that caused my motivation to wane. Because of Chris, I wanted to avoid the gym sometimes. Moreover, I was still skinny. Sometimes I would ask myself, "What's the point in spending all of this time training when I could be doing something else?" The other students around me went out to clubs, went on dates, or participated in a random social activity. I, on the other hand, became a gym rat, skulking about the gym when everyone else seemed to have fun. I felt like quitting.

I stopped going to the gym for two weeks. During this time, people began complimenting me for once.

"Damn, son. What've you been eatin' lately?"

"Are you on steroids now? You didn't have those lumps before."

"You've put on some muscle!"

Unaccustomed to compliments, I felt elated. My ambition for sculpting my body soared, and I returned to hit the weights with as much enthusiasm as ever. I took my memories of ridicule and rejection and used them to fuel my motivation, rather than shame. Whenever I saw Chris, I shifted all of my anger toward him to lifting weights instead.

Within a year, I added twenty pounds of muscle to my lean frame and almost doubled my strength. My energy level surged. From morning until night, I felt as if I could run around non-stop. I signed up for tennis and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu on campus, both of which were near the gym. My video game systems and books began to collect dust, because I moved around too much to sit still anymore. My posture changed. I no longer slouched, but stood upright with my chest out. And perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought that even a few girls looked at me a little longer than usual. I began to feel like a whole new person.

----To be continued...

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

The Beginning - Part 1

No boy ever aspires to wear a g-string in public when they grow up. At least I never did, nor did I think it were possible.

My childhood and high school life were average. I wasn’t a Don Juan or Rico Suave growing up. I was a short, scrawny half-Asian guy with glasses, too unfit to play sports. Like every other nerd who hated anything physical, I buried my nose in books and played a ton of video games. In 8th grade, the girls in algebra class voted me ‘the ugliest guy in class’—an accolade that did little to boost my confidence or self esteem. High school provided even further frustrations. I became interested in girls at this time, but they still weren’t interested in me. Most girls I tried to ask out flat out rejected me—all of their excuses centering on my appearance.

“Dion, you’re too skinny for me.”

“I’m into taller guys.”

“Sorry Dion, you’re just not my type.”

I accepted my reality. I just wasn’t very attractive. If someone had told me then that women would pay me to strip for them, I would have laughed and told them to use their creativity to write a science fiction book instead. Even my friends would have agreed.

My transition from a normal guy into a male stripper was a slow, long process, not an event. I didn’t get bitten by a spider like Peter Parker and changed into Spiderman overnight. Morphing a short, scrawny 130 lbs. boy into a male stripper took time, and it all took place during the first half of my college career. First, I reached my full height of 5’11 during my freshman year at college. I felt a little better not being one of the shortest guys in the class anymore, but I was still skinny and girls avoided me the same as usual. The next and largest part of my change occurred when I wandered into the campus gym and discovered the barbell.

Several people told me that lifting weights would help me build muscle. That sounded too good to be true though. There was no way a skinny guy like me could bulk up. However, the words of those girls calling me scrawny echoed in my mind, filling me with anger. Anger at myself for being so scrawny. Anger at getting teased for it. I had to do something. At this point of my life, I was seventeen, horny, single, and barely had a few scribbles in the pages of my sexual history. I excelled at academics, but my social life was a disaster. Anything would've been an improvement.

So I began to train.

...Continued in Part Two: Sculpting the Body