The Revue — Bring a Male Stripper Ain’t for the Faint of Heart

The year, if I remember correctly, was spring 1997. I have a very hazy recognition of this, but work with me.

I was 24.

Atlanta politicians had battered the energetic appeal of our beloved Freaknic and it had morphed into Black Cultural something, or Freedom Festival, or some kinda job fair but I know this much.

It was not Freaknic.

Me and two of my friends were riding through Decatur and we passed ‘The Gate’ night club but traffic was so thick we couldn’t even get into the parking lot.

“Have y’all ever been to Sharon’s Showcase? It’s a hole in the wall by South DeKalb Mall. They have older women there, but you know they like younger men…” my partner said.

“Cool, let’s roll.” We all agreed.

When we got there we noticed the crowd was older than what we were used to, but it didn’t matter. As long as there were drinks and women — we were cool.

“What’s a revue?” I asked the lady sitting at the bar next to me.

“It’s when you get to see strippers in a regular club. They have professional male and female strippers come out dance for a while, then the amateurs do it, then they open up the dance floor. You oughta do sign up for it.”

“The amateurs get paid?”

“Yep — and the women go crazy over ‘em too. As long as you can dance and you ain’t shame to do it in front of crazy women, you’ll be aight.”

What I want y’all to understand is that I honestly think I can do anything I put my mind to. Anything. If another human being has done it, then dammit so can I. If no one has done it, I’m bout to break new ground. Shortage of a can-do attitude? Not over here.

Add a few beers and the fact that I can do the cabbage patch with the best of em — plus my homeboys egging me on, “Dude, you better get that money. All these women in here you’ll make at least $100 dollars” and it was on.

$100 dollars ain’t a lot of bread, but anybody could use an extra c-note.

“Aight, I’ll do it. Where do I sign up?”

[Side note.] Guys, you have absolutely no clue how women change the way they treat you when they think you’re about to get bucky nekkid. The initial snickering quickly turned to, “You taking it all off?” and “Girl I wanna see what he working with.” Some women lose the ever-loving mind at the thought of a potential gyrating man part in front of them.

I signed up at the DJ booth — and the host, Big C Train, took me backstage.

What goes on backstage at a ‘revue’ in the men’s room? Let me run it down for you. The men are doing pushups, jumping jacks, curling weights, putting oils all over they body. Doing cocaine. Taking ginseng. Taking liquor shots. Playing with their junk then tying it up to keep it ‘stiff’. Putting on life-like ‘penile extensions’. (Dead serious.) All out in the open for the world to see.

It was crazy.

THIS is where I shoulda known the potential disaster that was about to take place.

But the night was gonna go perfectly — let the liquor tell it. Looking back I can only say one thing; “Blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol…”

Me? I wasn’t gonna back out. I ain’t never been no muscular dude — but I can shake a tail-feather. I was 24 — and although I wasn’t that super swole my six-pack was in full effect. So… I took off my shirt and drank a brew while watching the other cats get ready.

“Okay, you ready for this? You sure?” Camron, Big C Train, asked me. “Yeah, I’m good. Am I up next?” I responded. “Yep. It’s time to go get you some playboy!” Camron said as he shoved me out to the insanely ravenous crowd of desperate hood housewives.

*****

Whoa, whoa — let me back up. I need to give you a little more background before I get to the knittay grittay. Camron or “Big C Train” was the guy who ran the revue. His name was “Big C Train” for a reason. Like it or not — all the strippers, amateur or not had to come up with a stage name. You can’t just have ‘Kunte Kentay the Stripper,’ come out there. Next thing you know Kunte Kentay come runnin out picking cotton all up and thru the club.

No. No. No.

Everybody has a name. There were other pros and amateurs. Black Stallion. Hawk. That’s right, a damn bird stripper. Then there was The General. This muhfugga went out in a camouflage thong, and women went crazy.

Camron asked me where I grew up, what my friends called me. If I played sports. I ain’t know there was a formula to come up with your sKrrripper name.

“I grew up in the country, and I the only nickname I had growing up was Tony.” I was still trying to think of clever names when… “That’s IT!!!”

He slammed his beer bottle on the table.

“What’s it?” I asked.

“You’re Tony…

…Tony the Tiger!!” he said and put his hands in the air as if that name was on some flashing marquis.

“Tony the Tiger!” he repeated enthusiastically.

I laughed out loud… “Like on the damn Frosted Flake box?”

“It’s catchy dude… Tony the Tiger. Tony the Tiger. You’re grrrrreeeat.”

“Negro — you must be out yo mind. My name ain’t gone be no damn Tony the Tiger”

“Look Tony, women don’t care about that” he said. “All they care about is that they are out having a good time and you play along.”

“Its amateur night — ain’t nobody gonna remember you no way. How old are you anyways?”

“24.”

“For real? Boy, they bout to eat yo young azz up.”

*****

“And nowwww ladiessssss…….. Straight from the dirt roads and back woods of Louisiana, scream from the top of your lungs for a virgin to the stage — TONY………… THE TIIIIGGGEEERRRRRRR!”

People. Let me talk to you for a minute. What happened next would change the way I view women forever. Not in a bad bad way, but let’s say, I will NEVER sKrip or pretend to be a sKripper never, ever-ever again.

I’ll tell you all about it…

In a few weeks.

AJ

P.S. Now that I left you hanging — forward this to a few folks you think would enjoy reading this little slice of heaven.

P.S.S. Yes, I know I’ve done some dumb things, and I’m probably gonna do some more, you shouldn’t hold that against me though. I’m a dude who likes to have fun and I think you get one shot to live life and I totally try to live everyday like it’s my last.

Ze end.