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This is the actual picture that got Jeremy the job.
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From Broke -Ass to Bare Ass
Jeremy Green's Topless
by Jeremy Green
We’ve become increasingly aware of our lack of women’s interest articles. Hopefully this one will help shore up that deficiency. A slab of beef from Denver, seared and served up hot. This one’s for the ladies. Say hooooooooooooo!
The road to male stripping is long, veiny and extremely sexy. Just a short time ago it seemed like the surest path to all of my dreams. Little did I know that the dream would transpire into a sparkling-gold-G-string-that-was-2-sizes-too-small reality.
My friend Cougar had just moved into my house. We needed money, and I had an idea that was sure to place us atop the likes of Burt Reynolds and Rodney Dangerfield. Imagine a job that involves making upwards of $200 in cash per night, wearing outrageous costumes and dancing in your undies, while girls try to rub your muscular muscles and grab your wayne. That’s no myth, that’s stripping!
We dedicated ourselves to the cause. We worked out like mugs, ate like 15-year-old anorexic girls and binged on protein shakes like 15-year-old bulimic girls. Once our beef was cake we contacted Bare Assets in Denver and spoke to the front-runner of exotic dancing in Colorado. Enter Kiki; she spoke fast and sounded like a bitch, so I knew we were dealing with the best.
We showed up to the interview right on time, both looking like a couple of total fucking dudes. (Dressed like we do when we are “clubbin,” as Kiki had suggested.) Every time I looked at Cougar I wanted to punch him. Every time I looked in the mirror I wanted to punch myself. We were hot. We did some pushups in the parking lot and walked into the most important job interview of our lives.
“High Priority Bitch” were the words written across Kiki’s shirt. Her boobs were huge and her demeanor was cold. She immediately asked us to lift up our shirts. With a quick glance at our abs she said, “Ok, come in the back room…you’ve got the look.”
In our minds we were suddenly one step below rockstars like The Scorpions and Mötley Crüe and one step above bands like Bon Jovi and Ratt. Endless dollars, babes and exclusive roof top parties to attend. Booyah Chicken for every meal at home and super-sizing galore when out on the town. Only one thing stood in the path of the aforementioned luxuries, we had to actually strip.
The next day I met Cougar at PT’s Show Club in Denver. He pulled out a bag full of costumes, along with a gold g-string that he assured me he had washed. Cougar had the OR scrubs, a ridiculous 1950’s Air Force looking jacket, overalls and some helmets. Basically all the ingredients for makeshift costumes that middle-aged intoxicated women would find sexy once they were in a pile on the stage. I had my cowboy hat and a stomach full of dancing fraggles. Tonight would be the moment of truth.
I don’t think that I had ever been that nervous in my life, but it only intensified when I put on the gold g-string that was two sizes too small. I had to check in with the announcer. He asked what I wanted to be called. My suggestions of “Front End Loader” or “Rodney Hardon” were meet with a stern look. I was advised that a name like that would have negative implications on my income for the night.
“Call me Jeremy,” I said.
My heart was bouncing off of the rev limiter. I stood behind the stage and waited for X-Rated to finish up the last two songs of his set. A cocktail waitress approached me and started to make small talk (the song ended, three more minutes or so and I would be up). I told her this was my first time and she said she would give me a dollar. The song ended. As I watched X-Rated pick up his dollars, it hit me; I had no idea how to dance appropriately. I had no plan at all. What the hell was I going to do? A cold sweat broke out all over my body.
“Just relax,” I thought. “Sweat will be fine; it’s sexy. Looking shiny and slippery is sexy.” I had not really practiced at all. Sure I’d humped the ground a couple of times, but I was pretty sure that I was fucked.
The announcer’s voice boomed over the intercom “Alright, let’s give it up for Jaaaaramey.” I remember thinking, “Maybe they’ll play good songs, and it will just come to me.”
“Two trailer park girls go round the outside, round the outside, round the outside.” Eminem, yep I was fucked.
I walked up the steps and stood on the stage. Surveying my audience I saw about twenty women (good, women are good). Most of them in their forties (that’s ok I guess, older women have more money). I started to dance.
I kept telling myself, “Don’t be yourself, don’t be ridiculous, dance normal, get dollas.”
After about a minute fear struck. “They are not digging me,” I thought. “Time to take it all off.” The shirt came off. Bam! Next: the belt. Bam! I unbuttoned my pants and started to slide them off but they didn’t fit over my well-laced wrestling shoes. This was not sexy at all. I sat down on stage and had to ask a couple of girls to help pull my pants off in a sexy French accent (not on purpose, that’s just how I talk when I get nervous). When the song came to an end, I had already taken off all of my clothes. I was already out of ideas, and I had two more songs to go! I blew my proverbial load way too soon. I wanted to quit, I wanted to act silly and dance funky, I wanted to do a country jig, anything but try to dance sexy on that stage.
Cougar was watching me in the audience. He was trying to tell me to loosen up and to not give myself the thumbs up as I was dancing. Finally the songs came to an end. I picked up my money (about ten dollars) and went back to the dressing room. As I sat down a wave of relief washed over me. I had danced, felt that it didn’t go very well, but I did it. Now I had nothing to lose. I threw on the OR scrubs and watched Cougar. The man was amazing. This is what he was born to do. He could hump the ground like a champ, crawl sexy toward the women and execute the worm with staunch precision.
My next time up was easy. My nerves were gone and I let loose. I danced silly but it was better than what I had done before. The girls were digging it and the dollas started coming in. I was doing it. It was fun. I wasn’t thinking about much. Then, by my third time up, it hit me. There were mirrors all around and I caught a glimpse of myself…BOOYAH!
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Volume 2, Issue 2 contents
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