The above photo is of me delivering my final male revue performance at the short-lived Smyly’s Crab Shack in Hot Springs, Arkansas in November 2013. I was asked to appear as a ringer to lead a bunch of amateurs. And I accepted solely so I could retire from male revues – it was my first in seven years – on my terms. I was amazing. My cocktail waitresses on stage with me were also amazing. The rest of the show was predictably shit. And that was it for me and male revues. Good fucking riddance.
November 2005 in Hot Springs, Arkansas. It was twenty years ago when the Men of Hardbodies Entertainment of Arkansas tore up America’s first national park (fuck Yellowstone) on a cold and rainy night. The since long-defunct Club 2720 was packed full of women. Their anticipation fueled by girlish excitement and $4 margarita pitchers. I slotted myself third in our lineup of four entertainers. Slade led off with a spirited albeit unoriginal cowboy routine that got things off to a hot start. He was followed by Dylan and his explosive entrance on a motorcycle. Unfortunately, his act quickly deteriorated from there into some bizarre raver nonsense that baffled everyone. Then it was my turn to not only perform but right this sinking ship. Not by turning in a generic male revue set, mind you. But rather by grabbing my electric guitar and living out my rock star fantasies before a crowd of 200 intoxicated women per my memoir:
“Because my ego won’t allow me to do anything simple, I hit the stage with one of the most overblown male revue performances ever. Candelabras and fire columns awaited as I solemnly marched onstage covered by a brown hooded cloak to the opening of ‘Black Sabbath’ by – wait for it – Black Sabbath. Without warning, I tossed off the cloak to face my audience in studded black leather and tear away black vinyl pants. An electric guitar slung over my shoulder as I channeled my inner Billy Idol with a rousing rendition of ‘Dancing with Myself’. I sang and played guitar to a bass and drum track on CD. Leaping into the audience and straddled women in chairs as I continued riffing and soloing.
“This went over much better than glowsticks on strings as the audience was now back in the game. I’m not so sure they were impressed with the performance itself or the sheer audacity of a male stripper doing such a thing. Probably more the latter, which makes sense as my stripping career and success is largely based on my audacity to do wild and crazy things. That was the beauty of my career in those days. I never worried about the status quo. If I wanted to do something, I fucking did it. Fuck that Vegas corporate male revue bullshit.“
Apparently, the club was mortified by my brazen creativity. This was too dangerous for them. Explaining why I never heard from them after that night and future male revues hosted there were more traditional. They were safe as milk with out-of-state performers who didn’t rock the boat. Because they didn’t give a fuck about entertaining audiences. These were desperate and entitled gym bros on a sex tour. Guys who’d never stripped before and would never strip again after doing one of these road trips. It didn’t matter to me as the other three Men of Hardbodies would be gone within six months. My girls and I were fully devoted to private events by then. Club 2720 would be history by 2009. Hardbodies outlasted it by nearly a decade. Yet another prominent business my agency outlived by years.
Hardbodies Entertainment of Arkansas and Club 2720 went head-to-head that night with the Little Rock Electric Cowboy and its infamous Deer Widows Night Out. This is an annual male revue in Little Rock courtesy of the cheapest group of four guys from Dallas that the Cowboy can find. I’m not being hyperbolic. That’s what Electric Cowboy management told me when I attempted to submit a bid for the 2005 Deer Widows gig before putting together the Club 2720 show. My bid was too high, but the Cowboy got what it paid for. I know this because I sent one of my female entertainers to Deer Widows Night Out. She reported back to me not just unimpressed but disgusted. For all its admitted flaws, Hardbodies produced the far superior male revue that night in Arkansas. One far too superior for public consumption by the masses in hindsight.
It’s far from me and that one female stripper disparaging. I’ve heard countless women disparage male revues passing through Arkansas. Even the name brand outfits like Chippendales and Thunder from Down Under which are the stripping equivalent of lipstick on a pig. Attempts to bamboozle unsuspecting women through “no truth but power” logical fallacies. And if one wants to go that route, the true power has always rested in my hands. Unparalleled as a legitimate performance artist unbeatable except by my own perfectionism, which I now realize is the only thing that ever truly stopped me dead in my tracks. The women who voiced their disdain for these male revues absolutely loved my performances. And I’ll disregard any “to each her own” argument as my private party girls were light years preferable to the cheap and rude basic bitches willfully ignorant enough to lose their shit over male revues.
There are three major reasons why male revues are fucking awful:
Club Owners Are Greedy And Dishonest Assholes
I’m not a fan of nightclubs. And it goes beyond liquor laws and municipal codes. It’s that they tend to be cesspools of mediocrity catering to the lowest common denominator. My presence tends to result in drama as my self-confident swagger and sex appeal never fail to raise the ire of insecure men as well as women who know I’m out of their league. This also extends to the staff as they feel entitled to disrespect any patron they want. Toss in the massive markups on drink prices along with cover charges (which I refuse to pay under any circumstances), and you have a business model built on avarice in the most cowardly fashion possible.
Club owners gravitate toward the cheapest and blandest male revues money can buy. On the strength of my reputation, some have approached me over the years to ask if I could provide them with a better show. But at the same price as those bargain basement shows. Refusing to accept that they get what they pay for. A major point of contention between me and club owners is that I want paid based not only on the amount of booze sold during the show but afterward as well. Until closing time. The reason a nightclub books a male revue is ultimately to bring in the scores of men who arrive after the show to chase after 200 or so women and purchase them oodles of drinks. I’ve always known this and refused to be bullshitted otherwise by anyone. Club owners don’t even have the hospitality to comp my drinks. Yeah, girls will buy me drinks. But it’s the principle.
Fun fact… Most male strippers are such pussies that they must be intoxicated before they perform. I, on the other hand, have done most of my performances – public and private – stone cold sober. At least to start, as the girls inevitably want me to drink with them. But I don’t need booze to get butt-ass naked and let chicks lick whipped cream off my body.
It wasn’t such an issue back in the day, as with the Club 2720 show, when old school Polaroid cameras and film were a thing. We could sell photos with the guys to half the women present at $10 a pop for a handsome net profit. But those days are gone. And it’s why the contemporary male revue, on the troupe’s end, is an overglorified clothing sale. Ugly t-shirts printed on the cheap and marked up to a profit margin equal to that of the drinks. Even those “upscale” Las Vegas casino male revues are nothing more than an excuse to move overpriced drinks and merch. Those shows suck too. It’s why they’re based in a tourist trap like Vegas. Because no one ever goes more than once.
The t-shirt grift never made fiscal sense for me as Hardbodies didn’t tour. I would’ve had to order a massive quantity of shirts to get them at a decent price per unit. Without knowing how long it would’ve taken to move them all, perhaps years, they’d be taking up space in my home. And as stores of value go, there are much better options for saving personal wealth than in custom-printed t-shirts. Besides, I was never in the clothing business. Let the clubs sell t-shirts. Some of them do, so what’s the fucking problem?
I did consider utilizing male revues as a loss leader for scoring private parties. Picking up some for me and my girls. But never enough to make male revues worth the ginormous investment of my money, time (also money), and sanity.
Liquor Laws Are Fucking Anti-American Bullshit
The Alcoholic Beverage Control Division of Arkansas, or ABC, is the main reason gentlemen’s clubs in Arkansas (and other states burdened with equivalent offices) are the way they are. Pasties covering nipples. Table dances instead of lap dances. You can thank the nasty bureaucrats at ABC for that. A prime and unfortunate example of how government legislation works. Your elected officials don’t write the laws. They create bureaucratic offices that make and enforce rules based largely on corruption, nepotism, and generally being losers who no one ever wanted to fuck. ABC is a textbook example of this phenomenon in action. While there are also municipal codes in play that vary from one jurisdiction to the next, and I don’t have enough knowledge on BYOB strip clubs in Hot Springs like French Quarter and Centerfold to speak of them, the Arkansas venues with liquor licenses are crippled to a severe degree compared to clubs in non-ABC states.
I’ve interacted with a few ABC agents over the years and was less than impressed. Definitely not the coolest cats around. Flabby dudes steeped in low self-esteem. Psyched to be throwing around their ample weight based on the logical fallacy of no truth but power. I find it easy to believe they’re on the take given how long certain clubs have been in business despite being known for dealing illicit drugs. Although I don’t give a fuck about ABC harassing and shaking down most club owners, they do the same to liquor store owners as well as VFW and American Legion posts. If not for ABC, I would’ve possibly been down for doing discount-priced shows at VFWs and American Legions, but I digress. A particularly fat ABC brownshirt once opined to me that, since female strippers in clubs were required to wear pasties, the same rule should be applied to performers in male revues. They already aren’t allowed to wear g-strings. That’s the level of bullshit you’re tolerating, Arkansas.
For the record, I did wear a g-string during every male revue I did in Arkansas. Because fuck your bullshit liquor laws and the fat bastards enforcing them.
Male Revues Are Not Valid Substitutes For Private Party Strippers
Reaching back into my memoir once more…
“This rant makes me love even more my individualistic, rock and roll approach to stripping. It’s fucking gorgeous. To anyone arguing that I wouldn’t make the cut for any Vegas show, you’re goddamn right I wouldn’t. I’m far too creative, adventurous, cerebral, daring, and sexy as fuck inside and out to be anyone’s onstage boy toy. The further along I get with this book, the more obvious it becomes that I am to male strippers what Camille Paglia is to feminists. And that statement coming from a male stripper proves itself.“
As a quick aside… Upon its completion, I emailed a PDF copy of my memoir to Camille Paglia. And I never heard back. But I learned a new lesson: Never afford your heroes an opportunity to disappoint you.
Male revues are NOT an equivalent substitute for hosting a private event featuring a professional private party entertainer. Not in any fashion. I don’t care if it’s the Chippenduds at Caesar’s Fucking Palace in Las Vegas or The Men of Whatever passing through your town for one night only at Fat Bubba’s Roadhouse down by the Walmart distribution center. It’s nowhere near being the same fucking thing. I can’t stress this enough.
What more can I say? Paying exorbitant cover fees to rude staff for the privilege of purchasing exorbitantly priced drinks and t-shirts. Being “entertained” by a gaggle of insecure and intoxicated gym bros on a cross-country tour for tail who don’t give a fuck about entertaining audiences. Seeking affirmation from audiences instead of giving it. The overall style cramped anyway by draconian liquor laws. Basic bitches at the next table emitting eardrum-piercing shrieks nonstop. Immediately being swarmed by a massive caravan of strange and desperate men once the show is over. This is no way to celebrate a birthday, impending nuptials, or any other special event best kept among friends.
There is a major difference between being one performer in a male revue troupe and flying solo at private parties. The latter being far more challenging. A specialization unto itself. I am one of those specialists. One of the best ever. There are so few of us in the world. Devoted entertainers and entrepreneurs skilled at encountering a strange group of women in a strange location and immediately owning both with ease. Demanding a fearlessness that few men possess. I’ve tried getting those male revue guys to do private parties. They’ll strut around those clubs as if cock of the walk. Falsely confident within the coddling embrace of peer approval. But when it comes to performing alone at a private party, even the most physically imposing lunkhead is reduced to, “I can’t do it. I’m fuckin’ scared, bruh.”
They’d insist I go with them. To hold their hand. So they could pretend to be men at my expense. Not only would I just do the party myself if I’m available to go, but I’m not about to prop up anyone. Forget about stripping for a moment… I didn’t become a man by following any bullshit “rules for being a real man” or having others elevate me. I achieved manhood by being punched in the face repeatedly and getting back on my feet immediately every time with sheer defiance. And never a shred of fear. My party girls often remark about how safe they feel in my presence. Not safe as to imply I was a milquetoast “nice guy” or anything like that. Safe as in they feel protected by me. That they can let loose and be themselves without me judging them or allowing anyone else to attack them. And that’s the honest fucking truth.
And because of that, I’ve gotten a little extra wild and crazy with some of my party girls. Stuff we definitely couldn’t have gotten away with in any nightclub with or without ABC regulations. These are good girls, too. They wouldn’t do these things with anyone else. Just me. How do I know that? Because I’ve always been the man that so many other dudes want to believe they are. Even at my lowest. Even when I was younger and too naïve to see it. I was that man from day one. Only now, as the mighty Cockiavelli, do I get it.
And, as I also wrote in my memoir:
“I didn’t pretend to lick a girl’s butthole at a bachelorette party once. I fucking did it.“
Male revues suck. Go bigger and better in private.