Thursday, March 29, 2012

Stripper's Log 03-24-12: Video

I often write about what I do. Now you can see a video about what I do.

The party in the video took place on Saturday, March 24th. I'm doing my usual routine of taking body shots from the bride.


Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Stripper's Log 03-23-12

Friday, March 23rd, 2012. A small country town in Georgia, about three and a half hours away from where I live.

I had to strip for a birthday party consisting of black women. I couldn't remember who the birthday girl was, but her friend owned a restaurant and threw a party for her after closing. That meant that there was plenty of food to go around, a perk which I love about this job.

Another thing I rememberer was how conservative this group was, meaning that out of the dozen girls present, only three of them dared to interact with me without running away, jumping over chairs and ducking behind tables. They paid and tipped me well though.

One girl, a beautiful girl by the name of Tamara, took an keen interest in me. She touched and grabbed more than the average girl. After finishing my routine and while I was gathering my clothes, she nodded towards my crotch and asked me, "So is that real, or did you stuff it with a sock?"

"What do you think?" I asked.

"I don't know. That's why I'm askin' you."

"Here." I grabbed both of Tamara's hands and guided them toward the front of my thong, placing both of them against my cock. My audacity caused her to gasp in surprise, but she did not withdraw or let go. She smiled nervously and even fondled me for a few moments before turning to see if anyone else was watching.

"I better stop," she said. "They be talkin' bout this to everyone."

I got dressed and the girls offered me food, which I graciously accepted. As I was going to leave, Tamara and another girl, who was heavy-set, approached me. The heavy-set girl was holding a camera. "Let's go outside and take some pictures," she said. "Tamara wants some with you."

We went outside and I posed with Tamara as her friend snapped pictures of us.

"Get a lil' raunchy," the larger girl said. "Tamara, lift yo leg up on him, girl. Yeah, like that." She continued to snap more pictures, with more provacative poses. After we finished, Tamara offered to walk me to my car.

"She gonna be all over you," her friend said. "She likes white guys."

"Is that so?" I asked Tamara, who just smiled.

"Yeah," her friend answered. "Especially the cowboy types."

"Well, I can ride her like one," I said, causing both girls to laugh.

Tamara accompanied me to my car, and her friend went inside to leave us alone. The parking lot was empty, all of the other businesses in the small plaza were closed for the night. I knew why Tamara walked me to my car. She wanted to exchange contact information, and perhaps something even more.

"So you like the cowboy types?" I asked her in attempt to get her to talk more.

"Yeah," she said. "My family don't approve of my tastes though..."

"Why not?"

"Because they want me to get with a black guy, but I'm just not attracted to them. Not to sound racist against my own kind or anything, I just don't like them."

"So am I more your type?"

Tamara giggled, and slapped me playfully on the arm. I held out my hand and she took it and held it. "How far away do you live?" she asked.

"Like three hours away," I said.

"How often do you head out this way?"

"Sometimes," I replied. In truth, I would only come out toward her area if I had a strip show. Nonetheless, she gave me her phone number and told me to call or text her. She kissed me on the cheek as I got into my car to leave.

Unfortunately, that will most likely be the first and only time that I would see her. Such is the fate of this job---it's like a traveling circus that comes to town to perform and then disappears.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Feast or Famine

In my career of stripping, there is either a drought or a flood. Sometimes weeks go by without a single party. This upcoming weekend will contain loads of parties. This can be both good or bad.

Pros: More parties equals more money. If I'm having a bad night with one party, that may change with the next party.

Cons: More parties often results in less quality. Sometimes I have to rush one party just to make the next. Hurrying to end a great party always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Also, if the girls invite me to hang out with them afterwards, I would have to decline. This sucks if I wanted to hook up with that attractive girl who has been flirting with me subtly all night.

So there are more cons than pros, but I'll take a flood over a drought any day. I can wrap up the boring parties more quickly, and the money makes it worth it. And if I did want to hook up with someone, I can always try at the last party.

Anyway, I'll do my best to document this weekend. Something interesting is bound to happen. If there's one thing I love about male stripping is that no party is ever the same. Everyday is different.

Saturday, March 10, 2012

The Beginning - Part 3: Forging Social Skills

Continued from Part 1 and Part 2.

It was March of 2000. Y2K came and went. Nothing has changed. I was 18 years old, still attending college, still training at the university gym, and still failing with girls.

One thing has changed though. I now understood the basics of training and familiarized myself with all of the equipment at the gym. I worked out so often that everyone in the gym began to look familiar. I even mustered up enough confidence to say "hi" to them when walking past. Even my arch-nemesis Chris would ocassionally mutter a gruff greeting to me, but that was probably because he was working at the gym now and HAD to be polite to everyone. It was during this time that a new guy came to the gym.

Standing taller than most people at the gym, this new guy's tanned arms rippled with musles, and his blond, wavy, long hair gave him a California Golden Boy appearance. He flashed his shiny, white-teethed smile at everyone. Even though he was new, he walked around the whole gym like he had been there for years. Girls beamed at his presence, and doted on him. I began to hate this guy already.

Unfortunately, he frequented the gym as much as I did. He worked out and spoke to many people between sets, his bellowing voice and booming laughter carried across the gym, pissing me off each and every time. One week, I saw him talking to one of the prettiest girls in the gym. She was clinging to his every word, playfully slapping him on the arm, and at the end of the conversation, she handed him a piece of paper with what I assumed was her phone number. He flashed her his white smile and muttered something. The girl looked elated. What the hell? Here I was unable to even get one date after a year of college and failing miserably at picking up girls, then this guy comes in and starts picking up chicks left and right. I seethed with jealousy on the inside as I wished I was like this guy working his magic.

One day while I was working out on the gym's only incline press, the blond guy approached and said, "Mind if I work in with you?"

I looked up in surprise and I didn't know what to say. "Um, sure," I muttered.

"Great," he said cheerfully. As I got up from the bench, he extended his hand. "My name's Tim."

I shook his hand. "Dion..."

"Nice to meet you, Dion!" Tim said, with sincerity. "And thanks for letting me work in! Anyone ever tell you that you look like Brandon Lee?"

His jovial attitude took me aback. This was unexpected. I stood there dumbfounded, but Tim broke the silence and offered to let me do another set. Before he arrived, I was lifting 185 lbs. on the incline and dared not go any further without a spotter. I leaned back down onto the bench and pushed out nine repetitions by myself, and three more with Tim spotting me and pulling up on the bar.

"Good job, man," Tim said, slapping by shoulder. "You're pretty strong. For your next set, let's try 205 and see how many you do."

I managed to push out a few reps, Tim helping me with the last one. "Great job," he said. "With that intensity, you'll be pushing three-hundred in no time!"

Tim said that he was going to do some shoulder exercises next and asked if I wanted to join. By this time, I felt like the size of an ant. Here I was hating Tim out of jealousy while he went out of his way to be nice to me and invite me to work out with him. I obliged and we went in front of the dumbells.

Chris was doing a set of curls on a preacher bench nearby. I ignored him and alternated a few sets of shoulder presses with Tim. The whole time, Tim spoke incessently, inquiring about my training goals, school, and work. Unlike the shallowness of small talk that many people use, Tim seemed to carry a genuine concern to know someone with the questions he asked. The more I talked to him, the more I found him likeable and felt comfortable talking to him. I explained that I worked out because I wanted to get bigger, and that I wanted to be a teacher. Tim said that he was going to school to become an engineer. All of my enviness and jealousy melted away, replaced by a desire to learn from him. From that moment on, I decided to watch his interactions with everyone else, mentally taking notes.

After Tim and I finished shoulder presses, we left the dumbell rack and headed over to the cable machine. I asked Tim about his popularity with girls. He laughed, then shrugged off the idea as though it were myth. This degree of modesty impressed me, because even he had to know about the degree of popularity he carried. During this time, Chris stomped over towards me, scowling. "Did you leave all of those dumbells on the floor over ther?" he demanded, pointing at the dumbells section. Several dumbells lay scattered on the floor.

I sat there dumbfounded. "N-no," I stammered. "We racked all the dumbells."

Chris leveled a finger at my face. "You better not let me catch you leaving those dumbells around, cause I have to pick that shit up." He stomped away back towards the dumbell section.

I watched him walk off, my surprise fading away into humiliation, which started to boil into anger. Tim walked up to me and said in a low voice. "Don't take that shit from him. I don't know what his problem is, but you didn't do anything wrong. Go over there and tell him that. He owes you an apology."

"Nah, I don't want to start nothing," I said without conviction. In truth, I wanted to walk over to Chris and slam a fist into his face.

"Dion, trust me, man. If you don't say something, he's going to treat you like shit every time he sees you. Don't let him get away with that."

Tim was right. Chris has been treating me like shit every time he has seen me, and I was getting tired of him getting away with it.

"Don't worry man," Tim said. "I got your back."

I thought about every incident that Chris treated me like a fool, and anger filled me. My vision began to dim until everything around Chris darkened. I was unaware of anyone else as I walked up to him. Chris was sitting at the preacher curls again, and he looked up at me as I approached.

"Listen here," I said to him. "I don't appreciate that attitude you gave me back there."

Chris stood up immediately and faced me. "You got a problem!?"

I quickly closed the distance, entering his personal space and thrusting my face directly in front of his. Rage flowed throughout my body. Any sudden movement from Chris and I was ready to use Chris as practice for my new takedown move I learned in Jiu-Jitsu class recently. However, he did nothing. Instead, his face quickly shifted from anger into surprise and discomfort. "You heard me!" I said. "I'm sick of you pickin' on me. If you want to start shit with me, I'll be happy to end it."

I heard Tim's laughter in the background. "I've got a hundred dollars on Brandon Lee."

Chris's gaze wavered. "Calm down, man. I just thought you left the dumbells there, because I seen you working out there last."

"Well I didn't. And you need to quit fuckin' with me." I jabbed my finger into his chest. "You fuckin' got that?"

Chris said nothing, did nothing. I walked off, my heart was pounding in my chest. For the first time, I began to notice that everyone in the gym was staring at me. I walked the back door of the gym and sat outside on a concrete slab. My arms and legs began to shake uncontrollably as the adrenaline left my body. Guilt washed over me. Perhaps I went a little too far...

A hand clapped me on the back. "That was awesome, man!"

I looked up and saw Tim grinning. "Thanks," I said.

"I didn't expect you to try and start a fight with him," Tim said, laughing. I smiled. "I stayed behind and talked to him, told him how wrong he was. He won't give you shit anymore. Hell, I don't think he's going to work out for the rest of the day. Good job, man!"

From that moment on, Chris never said another word to me, and whenever I had to sign the member sheet to enter the gym, he just sat behind the counter and avoided eye contact with me.

I became friends with Tim and worked out with him every time I saw him in the gym. He coached me a lot on weight-lifting and nutrition. One valuable lesson that I learned from him though was social skills. During every work out, I watched and listened to how he interacted with people, especially girls.

One thing I noticed was that Tim spoke with girls in the same exact manner he was speaking to me, or with other guys in the gym: casual, confident, and sincere. From outside appearances, Tim showed that he was interested in how people were doing, instead of seeking a date or a phone number from a girl. His jovial responses made him fun to talk to, so people went out of their way to speak with him again.

All of this contrasted to my awkward nature. I was constantly fumbling for something to say, and often making a fool of myself in the process. After casting a chunk of self pride aside, I decided to mention this to Tim during a trip to the water fountain at the gym.

He waved the notion away as if I was being ridiculous. "Man, there's nothing wrong you with. Just act like the way you're acting now---natural. Act natural, as long as it's not boring. And never, ever use one-liners. Just make a casual conversation. Here, watch this."

We were passing through treadmills and elipticals when we saw a blonde girl working on a shoulder press machine. Tim pointed to her shoes, "Hey, I like your shoes. Those running shoes? How do they hold up for you?"

The blonde girl smiled. "Oh, I don't really run. I play tennis."

"So are you any good then?"

"I play on the team," she said, referring to the college team.

"So you must be really good then," Tim said, flashing with teeth with a wide smile. "I play from time to time. Perhaps you can give me some pointers if I see you on the courts."

"Sure, no problem."

"So what else do you do besides tennis?"

The girl began to launch into a variety of topics, carrying the conversation beyond tennis. Tim prompted her with a few words and she continued talking, her workout forgotten.

After a few moments, Tim said that he had to get back to working out, then walked back to the weights section. I followed him. Once we were out of earshot, he turned and said, "Do you see what I did there? I started up a conversation with her about nothing, kept it short and sweet, didn't bore her to death. I kept her talking about herself, because people love to talk about themselves. Now if I see her again, like here or out on the tennis courts, I know something about her to start up another conversation to build from there. Just gotta keep the flow natural, man. And keep 'em talking. That's where most guys fail, because they get into a habit of bragging about themselves."

I nodded, impressed. I didn't realize it at the time, but Tim's short exchange with that blonde girl had a profound impact on how I took to interacting with people. His advice was so simple, but I never realized it before. People love to talk about themselves. That's why I liked talking to him, because he was a good listener. His advice made perfect sense. I jumped back into the workout with a lot more questions than ever.

Two weeks later, Tim told me that he was moving. This news shocked me. "Where are you moving to?"

Tim explained that he had to move to Georgia to finish up grad school there. "Today will be my last day here," he said.

Life is strange sometimes. You meet someone you get along with well for a short time, and then they disappear forever. But in that one month, you learn enough lessons from that person that you can use for the rest of your life. I don't know how much Tim has influenced me, but he taught me some basic fundamentals of life, and these fundamentals are what crafted me into a male striper. Part of being a male stripper is conversing and relating with people from all walks of life. Tim excelled at that, and his interactions with people taught me how to talk to people in general without the shy awkwardness. There was so much more to learn, but I had to figure out these lessons elsewhere.

Tim extended a hand and I reached out and shook it. "It was a pleasure knowing you, Dion," he said. "Good luck with everything and keep training."

(Continued in Part 4)

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Stripper's Log: March 2, 2012

I live a double life. I'm 31 years old now with a professional job. I own my own house, and everyone at work thinks I'm just live the boring lifestyle of sobriety and mediocrity. When my co-workers ask me what I do over the weekends, I usually tell them that I play video games, work out, or clean up around the house... And that's true for the most part. But I don't think they could even fathom the idea of a group of girls paying for me to strip in front of them.

Last night marked my return to stripping again. I felt a little anxious about taking the job, since it was located in the countryside of Georgia and I'm living in southern Alabama now. However, the pay was good and the reception went beyond exceptional.

Alcohol flowed endlessly during last night's bachelorette party, which took place in a house. When I arrived, the girls were already drunk and rowdy. Most of them were around 18 and 19 years old, and the bachelorette's mother hired me because she wanted her daughter and her friends to have the authentic experience of a male stripper. Me being 30 years old, I was probably closer to the mother's age than the daughter's. Like most country girls, some of them wore wedding or engagement rings.

The show started out like every other show: I stripped, fished dollars out of girls' breasts, and grinded on a few. Some girls were hesitant and shy, but as the party continued, they seemed ever eager to touch and molest me as much as possible. Next came the body shots. This act consisted me me lying on the couch doing absolutely nothing for fifteen minutes while every single girl in the room took turns drinking alcohol from my chest and abs. After that, I posed for pictures with everyone, whom by this time were weaving and tottering and spilling their drinks everywhere. While I was posing for the pictures, I felt hands groping and caressing me everywhere: around my legs, chest, ass, between my balls and my ass, and on my cock.

The bachelorette's mother mostly hung out in the background of the living room and took pictures the whole time. I almost forgot her existence because there was always a girl interacting with me.

After group pictures, I usually call it quits and head out. However, these girls were far from finished---and intoxicated to the point of stumbling everywhere. The bachelorette flashed a few five and ten dollar bills in front of me. "What are you gonna do for these, hun?"

All of the girls sat on the couch together, in a row.

"You're gonna have to give us more of a show," a brunette said. I noticed that the engagement ring she wore earlier was gone.

"Start with Cobweb first."

I was confused. "Cobweb?"

They pointed to a short, petite blonde girl with the fake, tanning bed tan sitting at the end of the couch. She was wearing a pink t-shirt, a pair of white short-shorts, and cowboy boots. Her blue eyes had a hint of the glossed-over haze that alcohol brings, but she still tensed up with shy awkwardness at my approach. "We call her Cobweb," one of the girls explained, "because she hasn't had sex, or had a boyfriend in a long time."

I grinned. "Is that so? I'll have to fix that for her then." I got down to my knees, and lifted Cobweb's short legs into the air, placing them over my shoulders. I placed my head in between and licked the crevice of her shorts. The cheers from her friends deafened my ears. I stayed between her legs for a moment, then lifted up her shirt to expose her midsection. Cobweb had a belly-button ring, which I caressed with my tongue for a few more moments. Next I climbed up onto the couch and thrust the bulge of my thong into her face. I turned and faced her friends and said, "Maybe I'll do something about removing that 'Cobweb' name for her later tonight." The other girls laughed while Cobweb smiled, and I went on to the next girl.

When I arrived in front of Angela, an attractive blonde with no tits, I thought she was going to rape me. Although she was more reserved than the other girls earlier in the night, the alcohol had chiseled away her inhibitions. As I danced in front of her, she placed both of her hands against my abs, moving them down to feel my legs, then back up toward my abs again. She repeated this motion until she started fondling my cock. I began to get hard. Angela grabbed the sides of my thong and tugged downward, exposing me. She murmured a few compliments about me before one of her friends scolded her. "Angela, stop molesting the stripper!" A few of the other girls, including the bachelorette, rushed over to get a better look before I smiled and pulled up my thong. The girls placed the five and ten dollar bills into my thong, telling me that I "more than earned it."

The way these women objectified me felt surreal. I felt like I was running a 'show and tell' exhibit at a circus, and charging money for an attraction. Who would have thought that the attraction was my cock that the women were paying to see? Attractive women, especially.

At the end of the party, I donned on my clothes and gathered my things. Some of the girls went outside to the front yard to smoke weed in an S.U.V. I went towards them to thank them for the hiring me. There were two girls in the front seats, and four in the backseat, passing two joints around. Now I don't smoke weed and avoid the stuff like the plague, so I tried to thank the girls and get out of there as best as I could without inhaling any of the fumes. I almost succeeded too.

"Wait," I heard one of the girls say.

I turned and looked into the backseat. It was Angela. I recognized her as the pretty blonde with a small chest.

"Come here and give me a hug, before you go."

I went over and leaned in to give her a hug. I felt several hands grab me and pull me in. I nearly suffocated inside the dense fog of marijuana fumes. Angela's hand reached around the back of my head and I felt her tongue in my mouth. The other girls hollered in approval. She pulled back long enough to say, "Damn you're so fuckin' fine." She resumed kissing me. I resisted the urge to cough. The girls continued to cheer, both their high-pitched screams and the smoke assaulting my sense of smell and hearing. I felt hands groping me all over.

I don't know how long I was in the backseat of that S.U.V., but when I came out, my clothes were disheveled, my hair sticking out in all directions, and my whole self was reeking of weed.

When I go back to work on Monday, I will have to tell my co-workers about another boring weekend I had. There is no way I can ever explain to them that my weekend consisted of a bunch of girls fresh out of high school molesting me, and paying me for me. It's a double life indeed.

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Back to Stripping

The hiatus is over. I'll be stripping again this weekend for a group of college girls. Try as I may, I always come back to this job. Perhaps it's the high rate of pay and partying with women...

Who am I to complain?