A Male Stripper in Weiner, Arkansas

Weiner, Arkansas. Not only a town but also a meme. Just like Bald Knob, Arkansas located 45 minutes away. Additionally, Weiner is home to Weiner Cutoff Road. A meme in its own right. Weiner is named for its 19th century train station, which itself was named after a railroad official. This farming community of 647 people (per the 2020 census) in the Arkansas Delta is home to the annual Arkansas Rice Festival on the second Saturday of October. Weiner has quite a few streets for such a small town. Like thick veins running across the long hard shaft of its city limits. Pumping its loads of white agriculture in all directions. Deep into the wombs of civilization. Loving them and leaving them all day and night.

I’ve taken the meme status to a higher level than anyone else possibly could. Having been to Weiner and traveled Weiner Cutoff Road (and left it with my manhood still intact) in my capacity as the greatest male stripper that Arkansas – and perhaps the world – will ever know. As I once rocked out with my cock… er, weiner… out at a bachelorette party in Weiner, Arkansas. Not only did I bring a king-sized weiner to Weiner, but I brought my own perfectly round buns along too. Scoff if you want, but my party girls found themselves enthralled with both my physical attributes and pun-filled vanity. As my party girls in general are wont to do. This night was no exception per my bare-all memoir Naked Ambition: A Male Stripper’s True Account of Making Girls Behave Badly:

But first I had to drive to Weiner, Arkansas for a bachelorette party. Yes, Weiner. This small farming community approximately two hours northeast of Little Rock has been immortalized in countless articles listing places with funny or strange names. This was my first road trip in the new truck. Which meant that the electronic climate control module died two days prior. Without time to replace it, I bundled up on that late January night and hit the road. It wasn’t too cold on the drive there. Mostly a straight shot up U.S. 67. Cruising along as Nelly Furtado said it right.

My 11:00pm arrival time was on the later side. The event was replete with lap dances, Reddi-wip, and mini quiches. The living room floor was covered with balloons and I inadvertently popped more than my share. The temperature had dropped significantly by the time I departed shortly after midnight. All that bundling wasn’t enough this time as I spent the next two hours shivering and shaking. I couldn’t get home fast enough. Once I did, I immediately cranked the heat, took a hot shower, and got into bed. Although warmed up, I felt a little off. Worried that I’d gotten sick. But I awoke several hours later feeling fine.

It was four years prior, a few months before moving to Arkansas, when I experienced my first bout of pneumonia. Life in Denver had turned to shit after being laid off from my day job. Bookings were scarce as I scrounged for every bachelorette and birthday party I could across a four-state territory. I’d lost weight due to malnourishment, although I kept pumping iron. My diet consisted mainly of El Monterey frozen burritos because they were cheap as fuck considering the protein and calories they packed. I even dated girls who worked in restaurants solely for free food. All that stress and exertion caught up with me as I spent an entire month sick as a motherfucker. It probably would’ve cleared up faster had I not kept performing, but I had no choice.

I felt okay after the Weiner party. Until the following Monday afternoon when my well-being nosedived. And I knew what it was. Despite eating more and healthier than four years prior, I’d once again pushed myself way too hard and obliterated my immune system. The next few days were spent in bed. Attempting to keep down food while doing my damnedest to sound upbeat on the phone. Yes, I was still taking calls for bookings. Someone had to do it.

I left out the part about getting home late that night and my live-in girlfriend at the time (as opposed to the other girlfriend who didn’t live with me) opening the front door butt-ass naked. Apparently, she was suffering with a late night hankering for some big ol’ weiner action in any hole she could get it. But I was sick of her by that point. I just wanted to go to sleep in a warm bed. Preferably one without her in it. No dice because fuck my life at the time. But the party was a success. And that was the important thing. My bachelorette was truly the belle of the ball that is Saturday night in Weiner, Arkansas. Reveling in the pleasure of holding the hard and throbbing power of Weiner in her hands. Yes, it took both hands.

It wasn’t the best time in my life. I enjoyed the experience. But not as much as I should’ve. I would’ve loved to have lost myself even more in the moment. Especially in January. A time when the Delta is granted a reprieve from massive swarms of mosquitoes. I think of how glorious it would be, low temperature be damned, to run through the rice fields clad in nothing but cowboy boots. And to strut down Weiner Cutoff Road with my porn star-sized cock at full mast. To taunt that road. Daring it to do its worst. I know it won’t do a thing. Shooting my load all over it as my party girls scream with shocked delight at my bad boy ways. Truly a pageant to behold. But then I remember those damn Weiner cops. For fuck’s sake. It’s like you can’t have any fun anywhere anymore. Sigh…

But I’ve always had a blast on my road trips to parties in rural locations. Along with my Machiavellian leadership qualities and passion for entertaining audiences, it was my enthusiastic willingness to drive pretty much anywhere and everywhere that allowed me to carve out my long niche as a private party specialist. Having way more fun while making way more money than I would’ve doing male revues and with far less drama. So often has the road trip itself been as magical as the party. As exemplified in this excerpt from my memoir involving a bachelorette party two years prior in the also oddly-named Bono located a mere thirty minutes north of Weiner:

It was a crisp November night as I filled my gas tank on the edge of town. I’d just completed a bachelorette party in Bono, Arkansas after driving two hours northeast of Little Rock to get there. As I took in the cool air along with the sight and sound of a passing freight train across the road, I thought about the long night ahead. Rather than drive home, I would make the nearly three-hour trek to Hot Springs for a second bachelorette party. It was 9:30pm, and I was due by 1:00am. Piece of cake.

To stay busy as a private party stripper, being a road warrior is a must. This truth was always one of many obstacles I had with recruiting strippers. Most didn’t want to travel outside their hometown. Even in prosperous times, there aren’t enough bookings in the Little Rock or Fayetteville areas to stay busy without traversing the state constantly. And if I received two booking requests for the same night, I did everything in my power to handle both no matter how far apart they were.

I love every minute of my road trip parties and this night was no exception. My spirits were high as I left the convenience store and headed west on AR 230 through acres of farmland. As on the drive there, I cranked the stereo and switched between radio stations. Often winding back on Retro Pop Reunion with Joe Cortez. Because eighties music. I should’ve been exhausted by the time I rolled into Hot Springs at 12:30am, yet I was cocked, locked, and ready to rock. And rock is exactly what I did before going home and crashing at 3:00am.

Those night drives remain one of my favorite aspects of being a private party stripper, and I’ll have to find an excuse to keep making them after I retire. As enjoyable as they are alone, having the right girl by my side would totally amplify the magic.

That was the night I rocked Bono with my massive boner then drove south to penetrate a bachelorette’s hot springs. Okay, neither of those towns is as pun-ready as Weiner. Throw me a bone from Bono. But my sensitive purple point still stands regarding the pleasures I’ve derived from every moment of these experiences. From stopping for gas to bumping and grinding. And it’s refreshing for me to once again discuss my stripping career so lightheartedly following the drama and frustrations of recent years. To make jokes about sliding my big hot weiner between some party girl’s soft warm buns. Topped with Reddi-wip. Not an ideal weiner topping but still better than ketchup. Perhaps we should call it a banana split instead with my large g-spot stimulating banana inserted between two round scoops of sweet vanilla (occasionally chocolate). And I even bring my own nuts.

“I’m called the banana, and I look really good.”

-Rodney Alcala

The aggressive perfection that helped make me a successful entertainer was also a paradox in that it fostered its own brand of imperfection. My perfectionist tendencies rendering me somewhat high strung at times. I realize now that I don’t have to try so hard because I’m naturally going to deliver high octane performances without thinking about it. Nor must I consider the criticisms of women who will never like me regardless of what I do. The losers with low self-esteem hiding behind prudishness as a self-styled virtue and are put off by rhetoric such as what I’ve written here. Those women are nothing but trouble and not in a fun or exciting fashion. They’re also cheap. Like super cheap. So, fuck ‘em. Figuratively now literally of course. Definitely no weiner for them. They wouldn’t have the first fucking clue what to do with one as big as mine. They best stick with the cocktail weenies that they’re used to.

I sometimes contemplated whether my business Hardbodies Entertainment of Arkansas was a legit stripping agency. Looking back now, it totally was. We never had many entertainers at any given time, but I never overstated how large our roster was. I rightfully focused on delivering quality over quantity, and the pickings were always going to be slim in a place like Arkansas. And our clients anticipated this when they began searching for private party entertainment. It’s why they didn’t fall for the lies of all those so-called “nationwide” stripping agencies who bait clients with the promise of their choice from dozens of male and female strippers in their area. Only to switch out the promised stripper (who likely never existed anyway) for whatever dirtbag they can find who may or may not show up. And they definitely won’t show up to any party in an out of the way town like Weiner, Arkansas. Fuck, Hardbodies was more of a legit operation than any of the acting/modeling talent agencies in the region from what I’ve seen and heard. Don’t believe the hype. Unless it’s coming from someone like me who can back it up for days.

Only I have ever been able and willing to invade Weiner, Bald Knob, Three Way, Brown Springs, and other Arkansas towns with or without funny/dirty names and slide my weiner between the buns and milk jugs of party girls to their unbridled delight. I accepted the challenge of traversing Weiner Cutoff Road and drove away from the experience unscathed. It all reads with so much silliness as was my intent. But exploring this one seemingly innocuous in this fashion has taken some dirt off my shoulder. Such is the power of cock puns, rural Arkansas, and serial killer quotes rolled into one seriously tight essay. But not so tight that it won’t loosen up and accept a big ol’ weiner deep inside.