Reel Suite - July 12, 2010

Most men don't go to Panorama City to strip.  Not in the choking, trenchant heat of summer.  They occasionally get dragged to the mall there by insistent wives.  They sometimes stop at the Burger King on their way to the cozy, Stepford-like confines of the Santa Clarita valley.  They most definitely don't go there to peddle their smooth-as-fine-sauvignon-blanc ass for suburban women who possess the wit and allure of Arnold Horshack.  A man who came here to rip off his tank top night after night for nickels, dimes and Jeffersons would have to be what the locals might call "desperado."  But last week, that's exactly what this man did.
 
Every third Wednesday, Beefcakes in tres chic P.C. holds an amateur night contest to lure nascent succulent males and their wallet-fat friends to the club.  I decided it was important for my growth as a blogger to experience the seedier side of the entertainment world.  Sign ups were at the ungodly hour of 10 pm.  On my drive there, I hit zero traffic, so I reached the area around 8.  To calm my nerves, I ducked into a Thai restaurant, where I covertly did shots of Jim Beam from a flask, gazing warily at the flashing "Beefcakes" sign across the street.  At 9:45, I mustered the courage to enter the club.  On stage dancing to the thumping bass of "Seasons in the Sun" was a hairless, dark-skinned man sporting a leather thong and a vacant stare, as if someone had made off with his joie de vive in the dressing room.  The clientele was a disjointed melange of dork-retro mamas, lazy-eyed motel maids and toothless social workers, all horking greasy appetizers and champagne cocktails.  The smell was a combination of elementary school paste and the perfume counter at Target. 
 
I signed in with a cashier who I could swear was the "Fabulous" girl from the Orbit commercials, then was unceremoniously ushered into what they call "the beef pit", basically an airless, soul-destroying holding room.  As I plunked my Simon LeBon carrying bag containing my costume onto the green 60s carpet, I could see the other contestants' eyes darting from my face down to the bag, arching their brows, curious as to its contents.  The air was thick with the unease of oiled-up men sharing a confined space.  It was as if we were trapped together on one of those D-day amphibious landing vehicles, headed for the unyielding rifles of the enemy on Omaha Beach.  We knew why we were all there.  It was FUBAR, but we would all go down together.
 
 

After a midget they call Boss Daddy rattled off the contest rules, he gave us the performing order.  I would go on second after Venom, a pliable African-American, who looked like the love child of Flip Wilson and Gumby.  At the end of his act, he lifted one of his legs behind his back and up over his shoulder, sticking his big toe seductively into his mouth, all timed perfectly to the final measures of Paul Davis' "'65 Love Affair".  I quickly slipped into my costume, which consisted of a Star Trek Enterprise uniform shirt, a traditional Scottish kilt, hush puppies and a cowboy hat. 

The gravely voiced DJ introduced me.  "Ladies, let's give a warm Beefcakes welcome to Backend Prophet!"  As the opening strains of Duran Duran's "The Reflex" pulsed, I glided onto the stage, bumping and grinding with unbridled passion.  The women at the tip rail stared slack-jawed.  I worked the pole like it was my third cousin.  After flinging my hat into the crowd, I kicked off my hush puppies, then swiveled my hips seductively, slowly removing the kilt, revealing my twelve year old tighty whiteys.  The tip rail girls recoiled and retreated to the bar.  I was filled with unprecedented exhuberance.  My newfound abandon, however, was somewhat tempered by one wardrobe malfunction:  my Star Trek shirt was so tight, I couldn't fully remove it.  It ended up coiled around one arm and my neck.  To cover, I improvised a dramatic pose at the end of the song, one arm twisted and jutting out like I was in the Special Olympics of Stripping. 

Everything was a blur after that.  I only got $6 in tips and I think vegetables were thrown at me.  A dude from Arleta named Boner Simpson, who padded the joint with his au courant spin class cronies, ended up taking first prize, much to the chagrin of Venom.  He was pissed, but I was elated.  I wandered out the front door, encountering six young ladies who I thought at first were fans but came to discover were 15 year olds with a pregnancy pact looking for some sperm.  I referred them to the homeless men in the alley, then ambled dreamily to my '96 Taurus.  I had been bitten by the ladybug known as stripping, and I knew at that moment I would always be her bitch.  Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose. 
 
And Freedom, thy name is Beefcakes. 
 
I'm there Mondays and Wednesdays.  No cover, but if you want a lap dance, you'll have to buy me a $9 soda.

Kurt Barnet