Weiner, Arkansas. Not only a town but also a meme. Just like Bald Knob, Arkansas located 45 minutes away. Additionally, Weiner is home to Weiner Cutoff Road. A meme in its own right. Weiner is named for its 19th century train station, which itself was named after a railroad official. This farming community of 647 people (per the 2020 census) in the Arkansas Delta is home to the annual Arkansas Rice Festival on the second Saturday of October. Weiner has quite a few streets for such a small town. Like thick veins running across the long hard shaft of its city limits. Pumping its loads of white agriculture in all directions. Deep into the wombs of civilization. Loving them and leaving them all day and night.
I’ve taken the meme status to a higher level than anyone else possibly could. Having been to Weiner and traveled Weiner Cutoff Road (and left it with my manhood still intact) in my capacity as the greatest male stripper that Arkansas – and perhaps the world – will ever know. As I once rocked out with my cock… er, weiner… out at a bachelorette party in Weiner, Arkansas. Not only did I bring a king-sized weiner to Weiner, but I brought my own perfectly round buns along too. Scoff if you want, but my party girls found themselves enthralled with both my physical attributes and pun-filled vanity. As my party girls in general are wont to do. This night was no exception per my bare-all memoir Naked Ambition: A Male Stripper’s True Account of Making Girls Behave Badly:
“But first I had to drive to Weiner, Arkansas for a bachelorette party. Yes, Weiner. This small farming community approximately two hours northeast of Little Rock has been immortalized in countless articles listing places with funny or strange names. This was my first road trip in the new truck. Which meant that the electronic climate control module died two days prior. Without time to replace it, I bundled up on that late January night and hit the road. It wasn’t too cold on the drive there. Mostly a straight shot up U.S. 67. Cruising along as Nelly Furtado said it right.
“My 11:00pm arrival time was on the later side. The event was replete with lap dances, Reddi-wip, and mini quiches. The living room floor was covered with balloons and I inadvertently popped more than my share. The temperature had dropped significantly by the time I departed shortly after midnight. All that bundling wasn’t enough this time as I spent the next two hours shivering and shaking. I couldn’t get home fast enough. Once I did, I immediately cranked the heat, took a hot shower, and got into bed. Although warmed up, I felt a little off. Worried that I’d gotten sick. But I awoke several hours later feeling fine.
“It was four years prior, a few months before moving to Arkansas, when I experienced my first bout of pneumonia. Life in Denver had turned to shit after being laid off from my day job. Bookings were scarce as I scrounged for every bachelorette and birthday party I could across a four-state territory. I’d lost weight due to malnourishment, although I kept pumping iron. My diet consisted mainly of El Monterey frozen burritos because they were cheap as fuck considering the protein and calories they packed. I even dated girls who worked in restaurants solely for free food. All that stress and exertion caught up with me as I spent an entire month sick as a motherfucker. It probably would’ve cleared up faster had I not kept performing, but I had no choice.
“I felt okay after the Weiner party. Until the following Monday afternoon when my well-being nosedived. And I knew what it was. Despite eating more and healthier than four years prior, I’d once again pushed myself way too hard and obliterated my immune system. The next few days were spent in bed. Attempting to keep down food while doing my damnedest to sound upbeat on the phone. Yes, I was still taking calls for bookings. Someone had to do it.”
I left out the part about getting home late that night and my live-in girlfriend at the time (as opposed to the other girlfriend who didn’t live with me) opening the front door butt-ass naked. Apparently, she was suffering with a late night hankering for some big ol’ weiner action in any hole she could get it. But I was sick of her by that point. I just wanted to go to sleep in a warm bed. Preferably one without her in it. No dice because fuck my life at the time. But the party was a success. And that was the important thing. My bachelorette was truly the belle of the ball that is Saturday night in Weiner, Arkansas. Reveling in the pleasure of holding the hard and throbbing power of Weiner in her hands. Yes, it took both hands.
It wasn’t the best time in my life. I enjoyed the experience. But not as much as I should’ve. I would’ve loved to have lost myself even more in the moment. Especially in January. A time when the Delta is granted a reprieve from massive swarms of mosquitoes. I think of how glorious it would be, low temperature be damned, to run through the rice fields clad in nothing but cowboy boots. And to strut down Weiner Cutoff Road with my porn star-sized cock at full mast. To taunt that road. Daring it to do its worst. I know it won’t do a thing. Shooting my load all over it as my party girls scream with shocked delight at my bad boy ways. Truly a pageant to behold. But then I remember those damn Weiner cops. For fuck’s sake. It’s like you can’t have any fun anywhere anymore. Sigh…
But I’ve always had a blast on my road trips to parties in rural locations. Along with my Machiavellian leadership qualities and passion for entertaining audiences, it was my enthusiastic willingness to drive pretty much anywhere and everywhere that allowed me to carve out my long niche as a private party specialist. Having way more fun while making way more money than I would’ve doing male revues and with far less drama. So often has the road trip itself been as magical as the party. As exemplified in this excerpt from my memoir involving a bachelorette party two years prior in the also oddly-named Bono located a mere thirty minutes north of Weiner:
“It was a crisp November night as I filled my gas tank on the edge of town. I’d just completed a bachelorette party in Bono, Arkansas after driving two hours northeast of Little Rock to get there. As I took in the cool air along with the sight and sound of a passing freight train across the road, I thought about the long night ahead. Rather than drive home, I would make the nearly three-hour trek to Hot Springs for a second bachelorette party. It was 9:30pm, and I was due by 1:00am. Piece of cake.
“To stay busy as a private party stripper, being a road warrior is a must. This truth was always one of many obstacles I had with recruiting strippers. Most didn’t want to travel outside their hometown. Even in prosperous times, there aren’t enough bookings in the Little Rock or Fayetteville areas to stay busy without traversing the state constantly. And if I received two booking requests for the same night, I did everything in my power to handle both no matter how far apart they were.
“I love every minute of my road trip parties and this night was no exception. My spirits were high as I left the convenience store and headed west on AR 230 through acres of farmland. As on the drive there, I cranked the stereo and switched between radio stations. Often winding back on Retro Pop Reunion with Joe Cortez. Because eighties music. I should’ve been exhausted by the time I rolled into Hot Springs at 12:30am, yet I was cocked, locked, and ready to rock. And rock is exactly what I did before going home and crashing at 3:00am.
“Those night drives remain one of my favorite aspects of being a private party stripper, and I’ll have to find an excuse to keep making them after I retire. As enjoyable as they are alone, having the right girl by my side would totally amplify the magic.”
That was the night I rocked Bono with my massive boner then drove south to penetrate a bachelorette’s hot springs. Okay, neither of those towns is as pun-ready as Weiner. Throw me a bone from Bono. But my sensitive purple point still stands regarding the pleasures I’ve derived from every moment of these experiences. From stopping for gas to bumping and grinding. And it’s refreshing for me to once again discuss my stripping career so lightheartedly following the drama and frustrations of recent years. To make jokes about sliding my big hot weiner between some party girl’s soft warm buns. Topped with Reddi-wip. Not an ideal weiner topping but still better than ketchup. Perhaps we should call it a banana split instead with my large g-spot stimulating banana inserted between two round scoops of sweet vanilla (occasionally chocolate). And I even bring my own nuts.
“I’m called the banana, and I look really good.”
-Rodney Alcala
The aggressive perfection that helped make me a successful entertainer was also a paradox in that it fostered its own brand of imperfection. My perfectionist tendencies rendering me somewhat high strung at times. I realize now that I don’t have to try so hard because I’m naturally going to deliver high octane performances without thinking about it. Nor must I consider the criticisms of women who will never like me regardless of what I do. The losers with low self-esteem hiding behind prudishness as a self-styled virtue and are put off by rhetoric such as what I’ve written here. Those women are nothing but trouble and not in a fun or exciting fashion. They’re also cheap. Like super cheap. So, fuck ‘em. Figuratively now literally of course. Definitely no weiner for them. They wouldn’t have the first fucking clue what to do with one as big as mine. They best stick with the cocktail weenies that they’re used to.
I sometimes contemplated whether my business Hardbodies Entertainment of Arkansas was a legit stripping agency. Looking back now, it totally was. We never had many entertainers at any given time, but I never overstated how large our roster was. I rightfully focused on delivering quality over quantity, and the pickings were always going to be slim in a place like Arkansas. And our clients anticipated this when they began searching for private party entertainment. It’s why they didn’t fall for the lies of all those so-called “nationwide” stripping agencies who bait clients with the promise of their choice from dozens of male and female strippers in their area. Only to switch out the promised stripper (who likely never existed anyway) for whatever dirtbag they can find who may or may not show up. And they definitely won’t show up to any party in an out of the way town like Weiner, Arkansas. Fuck, Hardbodies was more of a legit operation than any of the acting/modeling talent agencies in the region from what I’ve seen and heard. Don’t believe the hype. Unless it’s coming from someone like me who can back it up for days.
Only I have ever been able and willing to invade Weiner, Bald Knob, Three Way, Brown Springs, and other Arkansas towns with or without funny/dirty names and slide my weiner between the buns and milk jugs of party girls to their unbridled delight. I accepted the challenge of traversing Weiner Cutoff Road and drove away from the experience unscathed. It all reads with so much silliness as was my intent. But exploring this one seemingly innocuous in this fashion has taken some dirt off my shoulder. Such is the power of cock puns, rural Arkansas, and serial killer quotes rolled into one seriously tight essay. But not so tight that it won’t loosen up and accept a big ol’ weiner deep inside.
This week is notable for me as it was 21 years ago – on April 16, 2004 to be exact – when I launched Hardbodies Entertainment of Arkansas. My adult entertainment agency of male (mostly me) and female strippers that tore up private parties throughout the state and beyond for 14 years and a couple of weeks. Many would-be competitors came and went without a single one lasting 90 days. It was also this week in 2018 when the long-running drama surrounding Emily’s birthday party reared its ugly head. All of this and oodles more is covered in my bare-all memoir Naked Ambition: A Male Stripper’s True Account of Making Girls Behave Badly. Which, coincidentally, went back into print in both paperback and non-Kindle eBook editions this week. Get your copy if you haven’t already. And if you’re still on the fence, you can read the first chapter for free right on this website and enjoy titillating anecdotes such as this one recalling the first Hardbodies booking:
”’Oh yeah, baby. You work his big cock,’” cooed the client as she videoed the bachelorette giving me a hand job.
“A week after walking out of the pool and spa dealership, I was performing at the inaugural Hardbodies Entertainment of Arkansas booking in the unincorporated community of Hattieville. My excitement ran high during the hour drive there. The final minutes especially magical as I traveled AR 213 shaded from the late afternoon sun by endless rows of majestic trees. Arkansas has many flaws, but it’s fucking gorgeous.
“I was a cowboy that evening. Rocking tear-away jeans and repeatedly cracking my bullwhip to the sound of Kid Rock. The festivities got off to a shaky start as the groom’s mother quickly became upset with my presence and left. Not sure why she was there in the first place, but whatever. It was still better than my first ever stripping performance at a male revue in Denver. One for which I earned $14 in tips and was flashed by a woman with crooked titties and no front teeth.
“With monster-in-law gone, I immediately gelled with my audience and delivered an enthusiastic performance. Inspired by excitement for my new entrepreneurial journey. My bachelorette paid me the compliment I would receive at nearly every performance:
“’Mmmm… You smell good.’
“Along with my impeccable hygiene, I’ve always been a cologne enthusiast. Mainly rotating between Preferred Stock, Eternity, and Bottega Veneta. Being told I smell good is one of the highest compliments I can receive from a woman.
“The bachelorette wasn’t the only one to cut loose. I allowed another girl to eat food off my bare ass. Mini quiches, tiny chicken salad sandwiches, and other standard bachelorette party foods of the era. I would go on to eat a lot of these myself over the years but not off anyone’s bare ass. Not usually, anyway.”
The spring and summer of 2004 was an exciting time for me and remains the least anxious period in my life. A dragon I continually chase. Wanting to live that magic again. I was young, hot, and butt-ass naked. I still am, and even hotter to boot, so it’s definitely within reach. With hindsight being 20/20 and all, I should’ve focused on scoring gigs solely with the wild and crazy party girls while leaving the prudes and other basic bitches to kick rocks. The former more generous and polite while the latter excelled at being cheap and rude. But I was confident that I could please everyone. And it wasn’t that I couldn’t. It’s that some women chose to be dissatisfied. Realistically, I gave more than any other male stripper ever. And with a porn star-size cock. Even on my worst nights I did it oh so right.
I shot many self-portraits for marketing at the time. My photography skills were still in their infancy, and I was using a 35mm Nikon point-and-shoot, but it didn’t matter. Those wild and crazy party girls appreciated knowing exactly who they were getting. Unlike when they contacted those bullshit “nationwide” agencies with websites full of stolen photos utilizing the bait-and-switch business model. Anyway, my most popular self-portrait from that time was my naked cowboy photo. Nothing but boots and a hat as I rocked out with my cock out. Gripping my bullwhip. Ready to spank some party girl butts with my own firm round butt on display. This image was so popular that I uploaded a cropped photo to Hot or Not and scored 9.8 on the strength of several thousand votes. Only the rule prohibiting nudity kept me from achieving a perfect 10 as you can see for yourself:
That photo is the unequivocal visual representation of where I was at the time:
”I looked great. Of course, I had to. But I was content with where I was at that time. My weight hovered around 180 lbs. Although longing for increased muscularity, my even six-foot frame was undoubtedly a lean, mean stripping machine. My head was held high everywhere I went as I rocked platinum blonde hair and an athletic physique in the tightest jeans I could squeeze into. People noticed as I received equal amounts of cheers and jeers everywhere I went. These were halcyon days indeed.
“Young, hot, and self-employed. I was truly living the dream.”
Aside from weighing a lean 200 lbs. with long black hair now, those words capture the mood I’m in right now. And I feel even better about myself now than I did then regarding both looks and the mountains of wisdom I’ve acquired the hard way during the past two decades. Really, my struggles now aren’t that different from what they were then. This realization has helped me to ease my anxieties of late. And that only enhances my physical aesthetics.
Anyway, get the book already.