Cheese Studs Go West

"SUCK HIS DICK!! SUCK HIS DICK!! SUCK HIS DICK!!"

They cheered and circled around me, gathering and swarming together like a school of starving piranha thrown a piece of bloody meat. 'You women are insane!', I thought loudly. Collin the Juggernaut, my friend and naked accomplice, couldn't believe his eyes. It was strange enough that in front of all of their friends, the bride to be and her mother were both holding my cock and taking turns placing it in each others mouths but the clincher was the fact that the mother of the groom was two feet behind them watching, clapping, and dancing, cheering......"Suck his dick! Suck his dick! Suck his dick!" For the record, I did feel bad for the groom to be, though this hardly stopped my "performance". I mean I was paid to "entertain" after all.

Collin and I continued dancing inside the circle of females with what was left of our costumes, graciously accepting all gratuities, including not only a sweaty assortment of singles and five-dollar bills but also a random amount of quickie blow jobs, a constant barrage of ass grabbins, and some not so pleasurable ball fondlins. After the show was over, before getting dressed, Collin bent over and pulled a folded up $20 out of his ass. He claimed it wasn't just in-between his butt cheeks but literally up and inside of his rectum. Later, on our way to the Pacific Club, our most revered Minneapolis meat market, Collin, as a joke, gave the soiled $20 to a bag lady who was wheeling her cart on the street in front of the niteclub. I found the gesture rather rude, myself.

The next morning, the Juggernaut, who had crashed at my pad, woke me up early with some gibberish about implementing our secret plan we had apparently conjured up in our drunken states of mind about 7 or 8 hours earlier.

"What the fuck are you talking about!"

"L.A.! What the fuck are you talkin' about! You said last night that after our gig tonite in Iowa, we were just gonna bolt with the cash and roll to California."

"To visit?" I acted dumb. I remembered what the fuck I said. I was laying there with a throbbing head and an aching stomach staring at my dickhead friend in disbelief at how much energy this crazy motherfucker had. He amazed me. On one hand he was an ultra-aggressive, angry at the world, kick the shit out of you if you look at him wrong, kind of guy but on the other hand he would act like my bitchy girlfriend saying shit like "I promised him" or "you said you would" type of shit. He was a big baby but I had to take heed lest I get my head ripped off.

"Alright, we'll go", I said, "but let's go next week or somethin'. I'm not going anywhere with this fucking headache." I figured he probably wouldn't remember I even brought it up if I held him off for a week or so on the subject.

"Fuck that! We should go. Fuck this stupid fuckin' wanna-be town! I'm sick of these fuckin' "Andersons" and "Johnsons" and "Millers" thinkin' they're the shit. 'Oh my name's John Anderson--don't fuck with me'.....fuck the John Andersons of this town and fuck these nobody assholes from Minnesota! We're too big for this shithole. C'mon Adam! Let's just fuckin' do it. We'll rule out there. C'mon!!"

"Yea? Yea. Fuck 'em. Why not! Let's do it. Fuck 'em! Fuck 'em all!" He wasn't very bright but he always got me pumped up. So I stuck to my bullshit drunk talk and decided to head to L.A. "We'll go but I've got to get rid of this fucking headache first! We got any pain killers left?"

Besides lifting weights, stripping, and beating people up, Collin also developed the fine hobby of hustling prescription drugs and, of course, I was there right along with him. It wasn't too ingenius actually. We would simply xerox copies of the original doctors' scripts, forge their names and do this repeatedly until we ran out of drugstores. As soon as we did we would start over from the beginning and hope they had forgotten us by then. If they had the same people working, we would have someone else, usually one of Collin's girlfriends, approach the pharmacy. On occasion, the police would be notified but we also had a back up plan for that--we would run like hell! Collin sold most of the pills but we would ingest our fair share of them as well, mostly vicodin, being that it was our narcotic of choice. We felt it was "well-designed".

To contrast and make fun of the low-life shit we did throughout our day, we would speak in an overly pompous, snobby and sarcastic jargon as we committed a crime or did something sexually decadent such as, "Well I'll be old boy. The vicodin are quite excuisite and the blow job is feeling rather delightful as well though, I should say governor, she is bit of a nibbler on the down stroke." Some stupid shit like that. It was our way of mocking the gluttonous and hedonistic things we felt, in our warped point of view, that the rich participated in and we took pride in the fact that us grunts were doing whatever the fuck we wanted as well even though our status was at bottom feeder level, at most.

So after hitting a couple pharmacies, we collected a bottle of "vikes" for each of ourselves and began eating them like peanut M & M's on our way to our final Midwest gig. My brand new shiny, zippy-quick mitsubishi, glorified white-trash wanna-be sportscar (that was partially bought for me by a generous gay old gentleman) was full of nothing but dance related materials including tear-away Cavarice pants, pink, neon green and various other bright colored g-strings, leather cockstraps, sequenced jackets, and of course my sparkling, rhinestone studded, silvery-white snakeskin boots. We were the kings of corniness, the lords of cheese and far from anything that resembled "cool", though our blissful ignorance was godlike and our momentum was supreme.

After heading down highway 35 about twenty miles or so, we realized that neither of us had an inkling of where the hell we were going. Not only did we not have an address to the show....shit, we didn't even know what city it was in! When I asked Collin if he knew the name of the town the club was in he replied, "Umm....Iowa!"....hmm. Hence I pulled the car over to call "Beetlejuice".

George, a.k.a. "Beetlejuice" was our road manager, booking agent and ringmaster of naked cheese. He was an ex-stripper turned mc still trying to hold on to his youth. His body was thin and untoned, he had long yet balding hair, a go-tee and he was pushing forty yet would still strip at some of his own shows just for old time sakes. Sporting gold chains and a hairy chest, George was a likeable, up beat, 70's throw-back and reminded Collin and I of the has-been, washed up ghost character in the movie, Beetlejuice. George was also that finger-pointing while winking at you with one eye and smiling, type of guy and, characteristically, dodgy and untrustworthy with money and women as well.

A walking cliche, he was....we all were, I should say. The only way I figured out how to keep liking him was to hustle him here and there myself by stealing some of his bookings and oh, yes....once after he screwed me out of some cash from a show I rightfully performed at, I met his ex-wife the same night, fucked her brains out and ejaculated on his wedding picture as she licked my balls. Sure I felt guilty and I'm not saying it was the right thing to do but it's what I did and it seemed to help me tolerate George a little better after he'd screw me over knowing in the back of my mind that I banged his wife (ex-wife to put it correctly). This was the usual way of things in the exotic male dance world, as pathetic as it was. Who could screw another dancers wife or girlfriend (or boyfriend) would be a show of dominance and something to be bragged about later. When I was a new comer in the business I promised that I would never be like that but after my first stripper girlfriend ended up getting tagged by half the dance squad, I retaliated and ended up participating in the immaturity anyway, adding to my pattern of always becoming what I judge and what I fear.

"He said our first show was in Davenport," I said as I got back in the car.

"I thought he said before that it was in Iowa!"

"Davenport is in Iowa, you stupid fuck!!"

"I know I'm motherfuckin' stupid but don't be calling me stupid or I'll shove your favorite white rhinestone crazay sexay lady boots clean up your ass......first show? So we have more than just this one?"

"Yea. Tonite's gig is at a gay bar in Davenport. Tomorrow and the next day we'll be at the same straight club in Illinois. George said the ones in Illinois are going to be as good of money as the stud bar," I explained to Collin.

"George is so full of shit, the Beetlejuice lookin' muthafucker. Every time he says that, we show up and there's like only 10 broke fat girls there. It's out of our way anyway so let's just say fuck it and leave after the first gig. We got a paid hotel, right?"

"Of course. It's a gay bar, the only gigs that give us proper accommodations."

Hmm. Amazing. Collin actually knew that Illinois was the opposite way from California and he was right--Beetlejuice has been so full of shit lately about how much he promotes the shows that there's no telling what would happen. He'd get a huge base pay from a club owner, keep it all for himself, then wouldn't put any effort into promotions. Come showtime the owner of the club would be pissed, the dancers would be pissed and George would just play dumb. A few weeks previous, I was so raging fucking mad about a gig we drove six and a half hours to get to only to find out we were dancing for a grand total of about 5 girls, that I purposely got our troop kicked out of the club. I intentionally wore my nerd-themed outfit and nonchalantly walked off stage after flopping my cock and balls out through my zipper. I sat at the bar, poored myself a beer out of the tap and drank it while I pissed on their floor and flipped off the bartender. Needless to say, they had some big bad ass bouncers and we had to fight our way out. Gay bars were rarely a bad booking and the money was almost always a gaurantee. Even in a dive we could collect a clean 4 or 5 bills for a four hour night.

An eight hour drive and a couple of bottles of vicodin later we arrived in Davenport feeling no pain. Though we were obviously high as hell and looking crazy none of the locals seemed to have a problem giving us specific directions after asking them how to get to the gay bar we were to dance in. I saw in their faces that they were scared of us but yet out of this fear could barely hold back a giggle. In their minds, I suppose, we were two big gay dudes on drugs from out of town and that it would probably be best for everyones' sake that we properly get the fuck to where we were going and stay there.

The club looked like a shambles on the outside hardly looking like it was an open establishment but it was par for the course for this "style" of bar in this size of a town. A lot of smaller city gay bars seemed to be set up like this. The prejudice straight public and the powers that be that they vote in were more prone to leave the "boys be boys" if the front of the business was discrete or unnoticeable. After entering the black tinted glass doors, Collin and I were relieved to see that the place was big, clean and decorated rather nicely. We were also relieved to find out that we had the right place after noticing Beetlejuice with a drink in his hand along with the motley crew of dancers.

"Christ. Look at 'em, Collin. Look at our fucking troup. They're so fuckin'....."

"Lame. I know. But say no more ol' chap. Just repeat after me....L.A.!"

Whenever we danced for George, I swear to god our dance squad looked like the fucking "Bad News Bears" of male exotic dancers. Tonite they consisted of; a Filipino martial artist with a severe under bite; "Billy" who was a nice enough guy but was mentally retarded and would studder, talk slow, and spit on you when he did in fact pump out a few syllables; David "The Entertainer" who used male dancing as a front for refreshing or replacing his current sugar mamma or sugar daddy; and, of course, Collin the angry Juggernaut and my pearly white-studded boot havin' self.

In defense of David "The Entertainer", all but maybe one or two male dancers I have met in my 10 years of doing it were whores in one way or another. The shit I've seen people do for the good ol' American dollar is unbelievable. 99% of all male dancers would have sex with a woman for money and 90% of them would let a man blow 'em for the right price. I shit you not. These figures are a low estimate and I'm not talking about just the gay dancers. Most of the sexual decadence was done by the "straight" dudes as well--guys who are 6'5 and 6'6, some 280 or 290 pounds, black belts in karate or what not who I've seen with multiple girlfriends yet who I've also seen in the backstage dressing room getting a blow job for a couple hundred bucks or less from a sixty-some year old man!

My friend and I cannot claim innocence either. Collin would meet a gay man wanting a "private" show in his hotel or wherever he was staying and "agree" to doing anything the man wanted to do. He would then go with the man to his hotel room and after recieving the money up front would then simply leave with the cash. If the man wanted his money back or gave him a hard time, Collin would just beat the shit out of him--plain and simple. Not that I didn't have my run-ins but I did it a little differently and would avoid using violence unless I was jumped or trapped. I wouldn't officially agree to anything that I wouldn't be comfortable doing and using a battle of semantics would talk my way out of most any situation peacefully and still have a pocket full of cash. I never agreed to or promised anything so believing in karma, like I do, I felt I would leave clean, not to say my space wouldn't get dirtied on occasion.

My take on it was that I was dancing and getting paid and what would it matter if I was dancing for a group of men or women however large or small. Was I a prostitute?! Before I answer that and before I get back to my story, since this seems to be an issue that has come up quite a lot in my life, let me tell you what a prostitute really is. Joe Shmo who gets up in the early morning everyday to work in a fucking factory or at the local mart for $8 an hour and hates his job is a fucking prostitute! But he's not doing sexual favors for money, you say? Yes the fuck he is! The whole body is sexual and its form was created with sex so when Joe (or Jane) Shmo goes to work unwantingly, he is forcing his body to do something it doesn't want to do but is doing it anyway "for the money". His body is controlled by his pimp which is his boss or the organization in which he works for. Hell, he's getting "screwed" for even less money than most "whores", if I may add!

This holds true for anyone, even those making more than $8 an hour who are working a job they don't believe in or don't want to do but feel they have to in order to pay their bills thus doing it "anyway". Most of us ALL sell out at one time or another. We are all prostitutes. Those of us who enjoy our jobs or what we do to obtain money are the only ones who are truly not whores. Not to say I didn't have a mess of confusion throughout my stripper years but I would have no matter what I did for a living and all in all I had a fucking blast, I got to see the country side, I met a diverse lot of people, I made easy money, and I regret nothing but one thing--allowing the judgments of others to affect my thoughts and my fun to even a small degree. If I could do it all again, I wouldn't give those judgments any consideration or respect at all. So to answer the question which has been presented to me by others and myself, "Am I or was I a prostitute?"--No. I never did or stuck with anything after noticing it wasn't for me...and fuck all ya'all who think otherwise! ---Back to Davenport---

The night's festivities proved to be "fruitful". Bills of all denominations were flooding our thongs and g-strings, though until the addition of a stuffed sock in his ridiculous speedos, our slack-jawed filipino friend did struggle a bit in popularity. Billy, our "mentally challenged" dancing machine, also faired well with his lucrative secret weapon of pity, and David the Entertainer proudly hooked up with his trick for the evening. There was even one older gentleman who threw each of the dancers a hundred dollar bill without expecting anything extra for his generous tip. At the end of the night, we collected our gear and looked for the Rip Taylor look-alike who was the owner of the club and the man with our cash. He was nowhere in sight and none of the workers at the bar would give up any info on where he was. We were getting screwed out of our base pay........again!

We met up with the owner's 18 year old daughter and questioned her on his whereabouts but it was to no avail. Strange, I thought, how he could have a daughter yet I just saw him kissing a young boy about one hour previous. Apparently our Rip Taylor looking thief had a double life at one time because we learned that she was in fact his daughter and, as a matter of fact, did have a striking resemblance--in a good way. She was very friendly...overly friendly. She asked Collin and I if she could come "party" with us at our hotel and though she was average looking, her tits were fairly nice, she was extremely willing, and she was also the only woman around, not to mention the fact that having a menage a trois with the daughter of the club owner who just bailed with our cash would definitely set things even in our minds. And after all, this was our last day in the Midwest and "WE were the ones who were doing the fucking around here" so we refused let any act go unretaliated and thus screw up our momentum to the West Coast. We needed to establish our position of the "fuckers" not the "fuckees", so off with the gay farmer's daughter we went, and with a last and final "Fuck You" to Beetlejuice and his extravaganza of naked freaks we headed back to the hotel.

The 3 of us entered the hotel room......wait a minute? There were 4 of us! The gay farmer's daughter (I can't recall her name--no disrespect intended) was chaperoned by a young weasel-like, queer little spy. Apparently, he was the owner's informing side-kick and "yes man" who was appointed to watch over and monitor the actions of the club owner's loose and wild young daughter, I would assume out of fear of public embarrassment. She made fun of him and cared less that he was there when she began dancing and taking off her clothes yelling, "Woohoo, which one of you bad boys wants to do me first!" She was a rebellious, young horny girl who enjoyed, using as sexual fuel, the fact that her rich daddy was going to find out what she was about to do.

"You better stop what you're doing, little girl. Your daddy is going to be very angry, yes, very angry....oh, jeez..." said the owner's side-kick in a Woody Allen-like squeeky voice.

Neither Collin, I, nor the girl gave any respect or concern for our little observer as he reported our actions, play-by-play, to the club owner whom he was talking to on a cell phone while the 3 of us were fucking like rabid squirrel monkeys on crack. We liked the fact that the owner knew exactly what we were doing and exactly what the repercussions were in his foolish choice of not paying us our money for the gig. So I guess his unofficial payment was his daughter's ass. Fuck man, maybe he got off on it and Collin and I were the ones being played as part of some perverted fantasy of his--who knows.

Either way, it was a twisted little event in which part of me was glad when it was over. The sex was good, of course, but threesomes, especially when it's 2 guys on a girl can get a bit awkward in regards to physical positioning. I mean, depending on what angle you were working it, you'd get an occasional inadvertent view of your friend's balls and bunghole. It was just unavoidable. Collin's overuse of steroids, at the time, had shrunk his testicles to the size of small peanuts and when he fucked all you could see was a swinging empty nutsack. It was a bit revolting, to say the least, but I pulled through and finished the job anyway. After a couple hugs and a slap on the ass, the young girl and her powerless, peering, little witness had gone and Collin and I were fast asleep, needing the rest for our long road trip that awaited us the following morning.

We woke up at precisely the same moment, swiveled our bodies off the bed, and looked at each other and screamed in stereo like a couple of football players getting each other hyped-up for the game. We combined all of our money into an envelope, got the hell out of the hotel and ate one of those awesome small town breakfasts. After I had made a few phone calls to say my goodbyes to some friends whom I just told I was moving, Collin and I were off to Cali.

"This is fuckin' great man! Look at this weather. It's perfect. I'm so fuckin' glad we're out of fucking Minnesota. Fuck that place for awhile!"

Collin rarely spoke like this. Commenting on the nice weather was not his usual style. Normally, he would be too wrapped up in his miserableness or what grandiose scheme he was devising to get out of it to express any type of joy. It also put me in an even better mood.

He began telling me more about his life and the people in it and told me a story about his other best friend, Chaz, who I had met a few weeks previous. Chaz was a trifling, drug addict, sociopath who Collin looked up to in high school. I didn't like him but the story Collin told me about him was amusing. In some kind of drug meddling deal gone bad, Chaz and Collin became enemies in which lead up to Chaz throwing a pipe bomb into Collin's apartment. The bomb only blew up the porch and Collin came out unscathed. Upon him telling me this story while I was driving down our hollywood or bust highway, something unnerving had been building in my head....something I had forgot?

"So how the fuck are you still friends with Chaz after he tried to blow you up!?"

"Well, I stole his cocaine and he tried to blow me up. We figured we were even." Collin said this in an, "of course" kind of matter of fact tone like it was a normal everyday way that him and his friend had treated each other. Neither of them were too bright but the story gave me hope for my physical well-being after remembering what in god's name I fucking forgot.

"HOLY FUCK!! Goddamn, motherfucker!!!" I yelled in a mad panic.

"What! Don't fuckin' tell me----don't fuckin' tell me you lost the money!"

"FUCK!! Son-uva fucking bitch, where did I put it!? At the phone booth!!! I left it at the mutha-fuckin' phone booth!!"

"Please tell me you're joking. You left over $3000 at the fucking phone booth!! Oh my fuckin' god! That's every dime of our fucking cash." At first, Collin was too upset to be angry but I knew him too well and knew that he was only in shock for the moment. This trip meant everything to him and if the envelope wasn't where I left it I could be facing at best a beating but death was a more probable outcome.

We were 15 miles away from the restaurant we ate at which meant from the time I left the envelope under, on, or near the phone booth to the time I realized it and got back to the phone booth would be about 30 minutes. Plenty of time for some lucky motherfucker to stumble upon the money!

"FUCK THIS!! We are not going to lose that money!" I went over the highway median and headed back to the restaurant, moving easily over 100 miles per hour We made it back in less than 20 minutes from when we left--the longest 20 minutes of my life. Collin was scheming on what we were going to do to the people in the restaurant if the envelpoe was missing. He promised me, with the clause that I had to help him or die, that we would hold everyone hostage until someone gave up the money or gave up information on who had it and where he or she lived! Sweating and praying, I walked into the restaurant like a soldier focused on his mission, stepped up to the phone booth, closed my eyes and reopened them to see the beautiful, white pearly, wonderful life-giving envelope-o-cash!!

My life was saved. Collin was so relieved and excited that he turned to all the people in the restaurant, who were all staring at us noticing our excitement, and yelled at them in a terrifying voice, "Aha, motherfuckers, aha!! We've got the fuckin' money! You tried but you couldn't stop me from leaving Minnesota so there motherfuckers! THERE! Eat your stupid fuckin' food. We're outta here!!"

Somehow in Collin's psychotic mind, the people in the restaurant...actually all people in general (minus myself) were always in a conspiratorial plot against Collin's plans. He took himself that serious. Regardless, I was off the hook and we were even more ecstatic than we were before we thought we lost the money. We felt that we went through the last obstacle and our confidence level was through the roof. We knew 100% that we would not run into anymore bullshit and that nothing could stop us in getting to our destination. Besides Collin threatening to shove a curly fry up some young loud teenagers ass in some fast food joint, the rest of the trip went smooth and Collin only got into maybe one or two other verbal altercations along the way (much lower than the projected estimate). Upon landing in Hollywood, we were pumped up and as ready as we were going to be. I gave an old "friend" a call (this time leaving the envelope in the car) and he agreed to give us an introductory tour of the area. I refer to him only as "M".

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