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