Man Of The Hour: Becoming A Certified Exotic Stripper

Here’s a Blast From the Past that I wrote a while back.
Mostly because it’s hot, and I love writing the word “blast”…since it reminds me of air conditioning.
(I know. That probably makes no sense. But I rarely make sense when it’s this hot.)

Becoming a “Certified Exotic Stripper” is not something I knew could be achieved in one hour. Rachael Ray could make two meals and Dr. Phil lectures a nation of housewives in that time frame. But I assumed the art of stripping required weeks of falling off that smudged pole while a hard assed task master would shout encouraging go-get ’ems like:
“Let’s go, let’s go! Lock n’ Load ladies! When you fall off that pole, you need to get right back on.”

But this isn’t stopping my friend Denise and me from heading to The Penthouse Executive Club for Exotic Stripper Certification class. Walking in the door, we find the club manager, dressed in a sharkskin suit, laying down the law over the phone:
“I ain’t dealin’ with that shit now baby…Look, that’s your fuckin’ problem.” He hangs up with a “women, whaddya gonna do?” shrug.

Soon, our fellow students amble in. Three of them are from Mexico, and I’m pleased that the Penthouse Executive Club can offer this cultural exchange with our neighbors to the south.

The double doors burst open and our instructor makes a bold entrance. She is dressed in a light blue push up bra, eight inch heels, white fish net thigh highs, a white satin mini-robe and some lacy panties. She gives us a big grin and says,
“Hi y’all! Anybody got any lingerie they want to put on?”

We shake our heads shyly, shamed by her exuberant sexuality. With her light colored attire and white blonde hair, she is soft and delectable, like a marshmallow.
We follow her up to the Red Room where our instruction will take place. There are red velvet sofas, red fabric on the walls, and red carpet. I sit down on a velvet sofa, somewhat concerned about the dried cum factor.

As we sip vodka, our instructor introduces herself as DeAngela. She insists this is her real name, citing her Alabama roots as proof. Earning our trust, she imparts the very first lesson, a bargain hunter’s nugget ripped from the pages of “Help From Heloise”

“Okay. First thing is, there’s no reason to spend a ton-a-money on lingerie. Men don’t know La Perla from K-Mart. Plus, it’s just gonna come off in five minutes anyway.”

With a sweeping motion, she points out what she’s wearing. “Now, I usually dress up more than this, but everything I own was dirty.” This makes me cringe. I picture a tiny, rundown studio apartment littered with piles of sweaty, greasy, cheap lingerie.

“The most important part about your outfit is the heels,” she continues. “Now, why do you think I wear these?” She holds up her lavender shoe in the air like a flight attendant doing the safety demonstration.

“I wear these so I can maintain eye contact with the man. That’s THE most important thing. That’s how you keep the power. Also, wherever your hands go, his eyes will follow.” She pauses, puts her shoe back on and asks,
“Who wants to be the man?”

In what will be the theme of the evening, I volunteer.
“You gotta spread your legs apart,” she says, yanking my fat thighs open. She bends over, keeping her eyes on me. “Now, ladies, watch, I start with my hands on my ankles, then slowly slide them up. Wherever my hands go, his eyes will go.”
We all watch her French manicured fingers traveling the length of her long legs, then up her torso. When she reaches her bra and unhooks it, her boobs spring out and she grabs them. She’s not shy. She’s kneading, yanking and slapping them like pizza dough. Then she twists and pulls on her nipples in the same violent way I have to twist the broken dishwasher knob at my mom’s house. I can’t understand why this doesn’t hurt her. She must sense this because she admits,

“Now, y’all probably can’t do this with your boobs ’cause mine are silicone.”

One of the Mexican girls translates this information into Spanish for her friends. The relief we all feel crosses linguistic boundaries. Now she launches into the next lesson. I am still the man. This means she now bends over, with her ass in my face. She tells us,
“Now don’t worry if your butt is fat or your thighs are flabby, because he’s gonna be looking here-” She pats between her legs.

Naturally, our eyes are drawn in that direction too. Satisfied, she moves on to a “Goofus and Gallant” brand of instruction,

“Now I’m gonna show you what’s NOT sexy.” She squats as though she were taking a dump on a hiking trip. “Now see, that’s just NOT sexy.” Then she stands up and takes the tie off of her robe, straddling it between her legs, pulling it back and forth between her butt cheeks. “And THIS is definitely NOT sexy.” It all seems pretty subjective, but she’s treating this like it’s Stripper’s Pythagorean Theorem.

DeAngela deals with cellulite in the same matter of fact way. She pulls out a bottle of cream and says,
“Never ever strip under BLUE lights. And this cream will help give your skin an even, all over smoothness.” Again, this is enthusiastically translated into Spanish. The translator could be a fantastic asset to the U.N. When the translation comes to a close, she utters her first words of English in a husky voice,
“Oh, we really need that cream.”

DeAngela glances at me and orders,
“Okay, I need my man again.”

She motions to a silver vinyl chair. It is not enough for me to sit on the velvet sofa anymore. For this lesson, there is a specific MAN CHAIR. I now see how the cum problem is handled. The men must all sit in this chair, which can be easily hosed down.
Now dressed only in panties and fishnets, DeAngela puts her eight inch heeled foot on the side of the chair. She starts writhing her industrial strength tits in my face, arching her back and reaching down to grab my ankles. I’m getting a little turned on. I kind of like being the man. I wonder if that’s because I get to relinquish any pretense of feminine sexuality. I’m often surprised anyone buys my act at all.

I was a late bloomer. Throughout high school, I must have possessed some type of sex appeal but I just couldn’t access it. It was dormant, unused, like my appendix. I never thought about it much until senior year when some sophomore girl wrote my name, along with four others on the handicapped stall of the girls bathroom. The list was written under the under the bold, all-caps statement:

And I thought it was so great to see, right there in bold, Bubbalicious teenage handwriting that someone, ANYONE wanted to fuck me. Me. Saara the dork. Saara who spent too much time scribbling in journals and no time getting felt up in the back of a used Chevy.

All of this is racing through my head as DeAngela says, “Now we’re gonna try some stuff together, starting with the butt shake. It’s all in the ankles.” She grabs a velvet wall and starts shaking her ankles back and forth. “Now, just let your ass hang. Let everything jiggle.”

It is an amazing sight. A butt earthquake. We all grab a wall and attempt it with varying success. She compliments the girls from Mexico and Denise. She looks at me with a mixture of pity and disgust, the way you would at a homely 8-year-old who picks their boogers and eats them.

We pair off now, with one person playing the man again. Naturally, this is me. Denise starts using all the tips with great determination: she boob grabs, she butt quakes, she keeps eye contact. I’m nervous watching her professional performance, worrying that I have no sex appeal whatsoever. I feel like Peppermint Patty. Just as I’m about to confront my inevitable humiliation, DeAngela informs us that the hour is up, and class is over. We are handed our certificates. They’ve spelled my name wrong, but this seems fitting.

I head for the bathroom where I find the Mexican alumni. I smile, and say, “I never did get that butt-shaking thing.” This is translated, and prompts us to grab a wall and try our newly minted moves. Since the other three all got walls, I am stuck with the bathroom stall. I furiously wobble my ankles, clutching at the door. This is my last chance to show myself and three Mexican girls whose names I will soon forget that I am capable of being flagrantly sexy. I flail and shake, once again seeking sexual salvation from a bathroom stall. But it’s no use. I turn around to face the other graduates and throw my hands up in the “women–whaddya gonna do?” shrug. I sigh, go inside the stall and use the toilet, pissing all over the seat.

It appears I’m still the man of the hour.


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