This is the first chapter of my bare-all memoir Naked Ambition: A Male Stripper’s True Account of Making Girls Behave Badly.
Emily isn’t my only stripping related tie to Sherwood, Arkansas. In fact, that’s where this wild and crazy odyssey began on a Saturday night in April 2004. The spacious retail showroom by day made for an outstanding after-hours discothèque by invitation. Its gray tile floor commandeered by dancers with dirty moves. Others took advantage of the display pools and spas. Alcohol flowed as stereo speakers blasted the likes of OutKast, Nelly, and the unholy alliance of Usher, Ludacris, and Lil Jon. Yeah.
Not once did I feel guilty for earning extra money this way. If anything, my employer was in the wrong for totally fucking up what should’ve been a successful pool and spa dealership targeting an upscale clientele. There was always something special about this location, and the magic was undeniable on that night. The full moon projecting silvery rays through a glass façade. Outlining silhouettes relentless in their miming of carnal desires.
I knew I could not keep that job a moment longer than necessary. That night, I had proved to myself all I was capable of conceiving and executing as a born agent provocateur. This moment of clarity enhanced by a party girl who put her arms around my neck and kissed me. She took my hand, pressed a penny into my palm, and gave slurred instructions for me to toss it into the pool before us and make a wish. With the taste of too much lipstick and Smirnoff Ice in my mouth, I went for it. Upon flipping the coin into the air, the crowd vanished as I stood alone before my future incarnated as an aboveground swimming pool. All was silent except for the sound of the penny breaking the water’s surface. Like glass shattered. The ripples continuing into infinity…
Hardbodies Entertainment of Arkansas came to be.
***
Hardbodies, as inherently nicknamed, was years in the making. Originally slated to be based in Denver under a never determined name. That’s where I began my stripping career. Quickly moving into private parties by virtue of my willingness to be a road warrior. Traveling to bachelorette and birthday parties throughout parts of Colorado, Wyoming, Nebraska, and Kansas. Where other eagles refused to dare. Over time I began securing bookings for a handful of like-minded male and female strippers in the Denver area. Strippers who shared my displeasure with the local agencies already in existence. We wanted to do something different with an agency that served our individual niches as exotic entertainers.
It was within my grasp until circumstances beyond my control reduced me to the entrepreneurial equivalent of chasing the dragon. A great economic recession hit Colorado around this time as people began losing jobs left and right. People had less money to spend on strippers. We all took a giant financial hit. I accepted a pay cut to remain at my day job. A few months later, my employer could no longer afford my services at any price. I wasn’t alone in this. Everyone else within my motley crew of Denver associates experienced the same struggle. Many of us dispersed throughout the nation in search of pastures less brown. For better or worse, my only viable option was Central Arkansas.
Little Rock is nothing like Denver, to state the obvious. Assuming I would catch on with a local exotic entertainment agency only to learn that none existed. The act of bringing together some guys for a weekly ladies’ night at a cozy nightclub, something which occurred almost effortlessly in Denver, would never happen in Little Rock. Too foreign a concept for the locals to fathom.
Despite now living in an area void of direct competition, I didn’t immediately jump to launch my own agency. Instead picking up occasional bachelorette and birthday parties from agencies based in other states while I enjoyed a steady paycheck. I sold a few pools and many spas to customers in the northern half of the state. A region vital to the eventual success of Hardbodies. All of this allowed me to commence my ongoing exploration of Arkansas as I traveled all over the state.
Now, one year to the month after leaving the Mile High City, I was cleaning up a pool and spa showroom in a town I’d never heard of until I moved to Arkansas. Picking up empty bottles and shocking the fuck out of pools and spas. One of my pet peeves is people who are afraid to properly shock their swimming pools. Fucking pussies.
I was both the assistant manager and a salesperson at Splash Pools, Spas & More. The factory outlet store for Splash Superpools. An Arkansas based manufacturer of excellent aboveground pools as well as shitty portable hot tubs that break down if you look at them wrong. The store also carried the amazing Coast Spas line of acrylic hot tubs, which accounted for most of my sales to the chagrin of upper management. My process for selling hot tubs to couples was simple. Flirt with the wife to get her on board, then close the husband by throwing in $200 worth of accessories that cost the store maybe twenty bucks. The product sold itself. All I did was sell myself.
We should’ve been rockin’ like Dokken, but corporate did nothing to advertise us or the products. Resulting in little customer traffic. By this time, the staff was down to me along with the manager. A useless dumb fuck named Peter who possessed the sort of tall and dumpy physique I refer to as “Arkansas beefcake.” He embodied every classic negative stereotype of a car salesman, and I’ve always believed he was directly involved in the theft of a $10,000 Coast Spa from the store. He spent most days losing money at online Texas hold ‘em in the face of mounting financial woes and a crumbling marriage. It was like having Shelley “The Machine” Levene as my boss.
While waiting for hot tub customers and tuning out Peter’s constant nuggets of life wisdom rooted in nothing, I spent my days plotting and planning in the first of several black binders I would carry with me to this day. No way in hell was I going down with this store or that lowlife piece of shit. The idea of launching an upscale exotic dance agency in Arkansas wasn’t merely daunting. It was fucking crazy. To the point that I got chills thinking about it. All the more reason I had to do it.
Peter was now throwing me under the bus to save his job. Not even a week after my big showroom party, he accused me of something I didn’t do as I left for the day. When I returned the following gorgeous spring morning, he was ready and waiting to throw down.
“Well, did you think about what I said yesterday?” he asked in a tone that smacked more of compensating than authority.
“I think you’re full of shit,” I responded as only I can.
Whatever nonsense he spewed after that went ignored as I strutted out that door for the last time and into an exciting new world. Neither Peter nor the store would last another twelve months. By the end of the day and $400 later, I was a shiny new entrepreneur. My life was about to get all sorts of crazy.
***
My typical performance is not the free for all orgy imagined by many. While undoubtedly sexual, risqué, and often involving the licking of Reddi-wip from body parts (tits, mostly), it’s a casual affair of girls cutting loose in the company of a hot guy with a dangerous amount of self-confidence. My role is that of agent provocateur. Rooted in my belief that men can and should be their own gatekeepers of sex like women. I’m no one’s boy toy. The girls in the audience are my toys for the night.
That being said…
“Oh yeah, baby. You work his big cock,” cooed the client as she videoed the bachelorette giving me a hand job.
A week after walking out of the pool and spa dealership, I was performing at the inaugural Hardbodies Entertainment of Arkansas booking in the unincorporated community of Hattieville. My excitement ran high during the hour drive there. The final minutes especially magical as I traveled AR 213 shaded from the late afternoon sun by endless rows of majestic trees. Arkansas has many flaws, but it’s fucking gorgeous.
I was a cowboy that evening. Rocking tear-away jeans and repeatedly cracking my bullwhip to the sound of Kid Rock. The festivities got off to a shaky start as the groom’s mother quickly became upset with my presence and left. Not sure why she was there in the first place, but whatever. It was still better than my first ever stripping performance at a male revue in Denver. One for which I earned $14 in tips and was flashed by a woman with crooked titties and no front teeth.
With monster-in-law gone, I immediately gelled with my audience and delivered an enthusiastic performance. Inspired by excitement for my new entrepreneurial journey. My bachelorette paid me the compliment I would receive at nearly every performance:
“Mmmm… You smell good.”
Along with my impeccable hygiene, I’ve always been a cologne enthusiast. Mainly rotating between Preferred Stock, Eternity, and Bottega Veneta. Being told I smell good is one of the highest compliments I can receive from a woman.
The bachelorette wasn’t the only one to cut loose. I allowed another girl to eat food off my bare ass. Mini quiches, tiny chicken salad sandwiches, and other standard bachelorette party foods of the era. I would go on to eat a lot of these myself over the years but not off anyone’s bare ass. Not usually, anyway.
***
Without knowing how this whole Hardbodies thing would turn out, I applied for jobs during this time but to no avail. While I focused on shamelessly self-promoting my mad skills, interviewers were only interested in knowing if I had kids and/or how long I would promise to stay. The dubious legalities of such questions notwithstanding, nothing about these interviews instilled me with any confidence regarding job security or potential advancement. So, I said, “Fuck ‘em all.”
My financial situation was adequate as I racked up parties while collecting unemployment. My living expenses were minimal. Allowing me to embrace my inner bohemian during the early months of Hardbodies. An average day found me waking up around noon, working out, and plotting my world domination. On many nights, whether I had parties or not, I’d hit the clubs in Little Rock during an era before they all became pretentious, boring, and rude. I loved getting out no matter where it was.
I looked great. Of course, I had to. But I was content with where I was at that time. My weight hovered around 180 lbs. Although longing for increased muscularity, my even six-foot frame was undoubtedly a lean, mean stripping machine. My head was held high everywhere I went as I rocked platinum blonde hair and an athletic physique in the tightest jeans I could squeeze into. People noticed as I received equal amounts of cheers and jeers everywhere I went. These were halcyon days indeed.
Young, hot, and self-employed. I was truly living the dream.
In launching Hardbodies, I hit the ground running. My expectations were sky high and nothing could kill my buzz. I was the only entertainer at first but kept busy. Being a true professional male stripper with an eagerness to travel anywhere made me an instant hit. A far cry from the fly-by-night wannabe who may or may not show up. And whose audience will be better off if the latter scenario occurs. Savvy Arkansas party girls proved appreciative of a local agency they could trust to deliver high-quality exotic entertainment to their homes.
My naked ambition ran rampant as I regularly scoured every place from mall boutiques to secondhand stores for potential costume items. I replaced my Denver-era costumes with ones that truly represented what I wanted to express as an entertainer. A single pair of tear-away pants took eight hours to sew by hand. And began a Sunday tradition of camping out on the sofa for a movie marathon as I stitched away while stabbing my fingertips with straight pins.
I took many self-portraits during this time for both personal satisfaction and promoting my new business. Hardbodies didn’t have a website in the beginning, so I utilized online directories like PartyPOP at a time when they were influential. While the other agencies listed for Arkansas showcased stolen professional photos of fitness models, the amateurish quality of my images worked to my advantage as discriminating clients knew they’d get exactly whom they were seeing.
Save for performing, there was nothing more exciting than when the phone rang. My initial startup investment included a cell phone strictly for business use and was glued to me at all times. Not unlike those Coast Spas, my excitement for what I was selling led me to close many prospective clients who were simply calling for prices. I’d beat myself up over those I didn’t close even if most were an issue of money. Or lack thereof.
Stripping was my niche. A domain in which I could own and operate a business how I saw fit. No longer did I have to endure the failings of incompetent employers. Or the excuses of backstabbing coworkers. Now, when I received praise from clients, it didn’t paint a target on my back. I could give VIP treatment to my wonderful and respectful clients while rejecting the overtures of would-be clients who were clearly nothing but trouble. Things were finally the way they ought to be.
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