Free Backstage At Chippendales by Greg Raffetto Page A

but by golly, I was, so I continued the charade a bit further.
    “Oooohhhhhhhh….” Jeannette moaned, as she continued to play with herself.  When I pulled off the freeway at her exit, I told Jeannette that I was going to pull over somewhere near her house.  Jeannette suggested a nearby park, and we pulled in under a tree.  I continued my authoritarian tone, which it was obvious was turning her on…Jeannette did everything I told her to do, and with gusto.  Finally, we ended up fucking in the passenger’s seat.  When we finished, I pulled up to her apartment complex, and Jeannette and I kissed goodbye, and she went on into her home, and out of my life.
    I was already late in getting to Ellen’s but I noticed that my hands, (and probably my dick…I didn’t know), smelt of pussy.  So, I decided to stop at a hamburger place for burger and use of the bathroom to give myself a quick wash.  The burger was fine, but the bathroom was out of order, so it was a stack of wetnaps for me.  But even after the wetnaps, my hands smelled of wetnaps and pussy! So I ordered a nachos with jalapenos and smeared the jalapenos all over my hands. (I would have to duck into Ellen’s bathroom to rinse my dick off again…I was not about to smear jalapenos on
     
     
     
     
    my dick.)  Afterwards, I smelt my hands again: no dice—wetnaps, jalapenos…and pussy.
    I went to Ellen’s house, arriving some 45 minutes late, and I don’t think she bought the excuse I gave about stopping for a burger.  “Look, I’ve got jalapeno cheese on my shirt!” (I’d made sure to slop some sauce on my shirt for just such evidentiary proof).  Ellen and I broke up soon after that.  I’ll always remember Ellen, but until this writing, Ellen never could be too sure what had happened that night of my secret “experiment.”

Chapter Twenty
First Dance: Everyone’s Out Of Step
But Me…Or Do I Just Suck?
     
    I’ll always remember the day that the owner of the club, Steve Bannerjee, “called me up to the big leagues” and I became a full-fledged dancer.  It was a night like any other at the world-famous nightclub. I was talking to a group of ladies before the show, when Steve approached. He pulled me aside and matter-of-factly whispered “we want you to do a little number”, deftly shoving a business card into my hand.  “Call her on Monday, her name’s Kat. She’ll give you the details.” 
    I did call on Monday and was instructed to show up to the dance studio that very afternoon.  When I arrived, I recognized several other Chippendales dancers there, as well as one other guy who was not a dancer, my friend Tohr, who, it turned out, had also been promoted alongside me and was to be in the same dance number as I was.   Tohr and I began our training not with a specific dance routine, but with rhythm exercises to get used to eight-count patterns in dance.  It sounds simple enough, but it wasn’t, at least for me it wasn’t.  Now I have to tell you, this really pissed me off, because all these other dancers were not educated as I was, and I had, up until then, I must confess, thought somewhat less of them for it. I was wrong.  These working class guys had no trouble remembering various choreographed steps and moves, all to specific eight counts, while I, with my
     
     
     
    ginormous IQ, couldn’t for the life of me “get it,” not even to the relatively simple practice sets.  This would set the tone for my entire reign as a dancer—I, frankly, would never be a very talented dancer—I would never get those damned eight counts.
    Fast forward one week, I practiced and practiced at home.  Our number was a “surf-stud” number entitled “Kokomo” to the tune of the Beach Boys song.  There were three of us, and we were all supposed to do the act, all moving in unison, which made it all the harder, mainly because I kept sucking.  I kept on practicing, but I really didn’t get any better.  The day of my debut arrived,