Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Anonymous Peril

‘Arses on toast…’

I came across that line, late last night, and I’ve been unable to shake it free from my brain. It just about summed up my Monday; the day when I finally learned that it’s not always wise to follow the advice of somebody who posts comments anonymously to a blog.

There’s some evil mastermind out there, possibly the very person reading this right now, who nearly cost the Chipster the contents of his thong. Their plan was fiendishly simple: suggest to a gullible well meaning sort of man that he might be able to serve the community by performing for the old folk. As you know, I’m always willing to ‘do my bits for the community’, as I described it to Gabby as I packed my duffel bag. You also can’t deny that I’m a less annoying version of Bono and, when push comes to shove, have tighter buttocks too.

The Beryl Reid Nursing Home is one of the better good causes. It has become Bangor’s premier resorts for the geriatrically inclined and was the first place I thought to contact when Anonymous put the proposition to me. After all my bitter posts of the last few days, I wanted to do something that might make you all love me a little more. That’s the only reason I hastily arranged to dish out a bit of free hip love. I rang up the home and asked them if they’d like me to go along and dance for the old ladies. It surprised me that they hadn’t immediately hung up.

‘What kind of dancing do you do, Mr. Dale?’ asked the matronly sounding woman on the other end.

‘Gyrations,’ I explained. ‘A few hip thrusts, lots of long-distance thonglateering, ending with the ladies having a brief one of one with the master of ceremonies before I stuff him into my hat and run naked from the room.’

The phone fell silent for a few moments. ‘Well, it’s jigsaw night but I don’t see why we can’t fit you in,’ she said. ‘How about seven o’clock?’

I arrived at ten to the hour.

‘Chip Dale?’ asked the woman who came out and met me in the car park. ‘My name’s Jenkins. Fiona Jenkins. I’m the staff nurse. We spoke on the phone…’

I shook the hand of the nurse who reminded me of a scaled down version of Dawn French. She didn’t so much have a bussom as forward firing artillery.

‘I was hoping we could have a word or two before you perform,’ she said. ‘There are certain things I should tell you.’

I held up my hand. ‘I’m fully aware of the special requirements,’ I told her.

‘You are?’ she asked. Her brows came together in one of those puzzled frowns which included giving me an inspection from head to toe that couldn’t have been less invasive if it had been a bed bath. I think it was my bright yellow leather jumpsuit as much as anything that had her confused.

‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘You’re going to tell me that some of your older patients are very frail and I shouldn’t get them too excited.’

‘That’s right,’ she said, unable to hide the appreciation from her voice.

I nodded. ‘I’m fully up to speed on the latest government guidelines on exotic dancing for the over seventy fives.’ I plunged my hand into my duffel bag and retrieved the pen I’d brought along for that very reason. ‘Here you go,’ I said.

She took the pen from me and inspected it with another confused look.

‘It’s a highlighter pen,’ I explained. ‘It glows bright yellow under an ultraviolet light.’ I delved again into the bag and pulled out the portable UV light I use for the gigs when I wear my luminous thongs. ‘All I want you to do is to go through my audience and give each lady a mark out of ten. One tells me to keep my hips away and ten means she could remove my thong with her knitting needles.’

‘You want me to do what?’ she spluttered.

‘Write the numbers on their foreheads!’ I said, growing a little infuriated at the woman’s lack of imagination. ‘That way, as I dance around the room, I’ll simply check out their number and give them the right amount of hip juice.’

She looked at me long and hard.

‘It’s a non-permanent marker,’ I added.

‘Oh, fair enough,’ she said and tucked it into a pocket.

There were twenty OAPs in the room and the whine of hearing aid feedback set my teeth on edge. It took me five minutes to clear an area, arrange the lighting, and for Nurse Jenkins to go around the room and mark foreheads. Then it was time for my dance.

I pressed play on my mobile concert system and the first bars of Tom Jones’ Delilah was met by the muttering complaints of twenty senior citizens turning down their hearing aids. Only then was there a smattering of applause, though even there, I can’t be certain it wasn’t dentures settling.

I saw the light on the night that I passed by her window
I saw the flickering shadows of love on her blind
She was my woman
As she deceived me I watched and went out of my mind

I danced for fifteen minutes, Deliha making way to Sexbomb and then The Green Green Banks of Home. It was hot stuffy work, but never let it be said I shirk my duties, even when I’m working for nothing. I made my way along the lines of ladies who responded with the usual appreciation. The numbers glowed bright on their wrinkled brows. I don’t hold with anybody who argues that you have to be of a certain generation to enjoy a good thong show. Some of these ladies were well into their nineties and I’ve never been so pawed as I was last night.

Eventually, I was down to the thong and the business end of the strip, as you might say. So far I hadn’t gone through my usual routine of having ladies thrust legal tender down my tender areas. The numbers had all been low digits and I really thought that was too much. And to be honest, the whole evening was meant to be my bit for charity. I really didn’t want to rob them of their every farthing. That was the home’s job.

Only, as I was entering the final stages, the ladies started to complain. It seems that they were eager to see the whole show. Purses had appeared and a line of fivers were ready for the pouching.

As you know, I’m not a man who likes to disappoint his crowd. I reluctantly began to work my way down the line, receiving the money with my usual thanks and a thrust of the hips. Finally I reached the end of the line where the oldest of the residents was sitting in a wheelchair. A large number 1 shone in the middle of her forehead. I didn’t know if it was safe to approach. A number one is usually a no-thong zone. It’s actually a government rule punishable by heavy fines.

‘Come on over here sonny,’ said the woman, gesturing me over. I couldn’t say no, not to that woman with a kind look on her gaunt features. She grabbed my hips and stationed me before her wheelchair. ‘It’s for charity,’ I told myself as I looked up at the ceiling and waited for the deposit to be made in the First National Bank of Thongland.

Finally, I felt the slightly feeble fumbling around my thong come to an end and then a smart slap stunned my rump restarted my engines and I carried on dancing.

Or I would if something hadn’t sent an excruciating pain through my groin.

I collapsed on the floor, the agony being so great that my body was just convulsed. It was eye watering. The whole of my world was a fiery ball, pain and heat and agony… I managed to get a hand down my thong and felt something sharp bite into my fingers. Gently, I pulled the object away and felt the pain subside immediately.

I looked down to my hand where the upper set of a pair of dentures smiled at me.

‘Who did that?’ I screamed. Only the woman screamed even louder as they congratulated themselves on a job well done.

‘Do you know how dangerous that could have been?’ I asked, not letting it go. ‘Do you know what damage that can do to a man?’

‘Oh, don’t be such a cry baby,’ shouted one. ‘It was only a joke.’

‘It was a love bite,’ shouted another.

‘Come over here and I’ll kiss it better,’ should a third.

Finally, the woman in the wheelchair waved to me. ‘Give me those back,’ she said. ‘I only have two pair.’

Despite everything, I couldn’t rage at her. The number one glowed dangerously on her forehead. I handed her the teeth back and to my eternal revulsion, she slipped them back in my mouth where they then beamed at me a second time that evening.

‘Hmmm…’ she said, smacking her lips together. ‘Coconut oil.’

After that, I decided that the thong would stay on. I got quickly dressed and stormed out of the home, determined that I would never dance again for charity. Nor, might I add, will I ever take advice and suggestions from anybody who leaves anonymous comments on my blog. I’ve a good mind to disable anonymous comments. After all, anonymous comments nearly disabled me.

Thong on…

7 comments:

Jamie Starbuck said...

Looks like you had a lucky escape. Of course, there are some that would pay to be in that situation. Not that I'm one of them. No sirree.

Chip Dale said...

Oh, come on. If 'Jamie Starbuck' isn't a stripper's name I don't know what is.

Hang on. You're not one of the famous Starbuck brothers, are you? If so, then I'm a huge fan! You've advanced the cause of stripping midgets by decades. I'm really honoured that you've visited my site.

Jamie Starbuck said...

Strip? With my body? If I'd been there you' swear you'd never seen pensioners sprint.

Ms Baroque said...

Chippy, Chippy, Chippy. You are so brave. And so organised, with your non-permanent highlighter pen!

I'd like to think that one day I might be like that old lady.

Chip Dale said...

Mr. Starbuck. Of course you should strip. I recommend it highly to all shapes and sizes. The famous Statbuck Brothers were both odd shapes, though the ladies loved them due to their small sizes and loved to pick them up during a show. Strip man! Strip. And say the Chipster sent you.

Ms. Baroque: we strippers have to be very organised. What kind of life would it be if we didn't know where we'd put out clothes during a performance. I thought the highlighter pen a nice touch though it was only when I got home that I realised it was permanent.

As to being that old lady, I could never imagine it. And would you really want to lose all your teeth and hearing in one ear and then have a number one scribbled on your forehead by a large nurse who looks like Dawn French? I think not.

rilly super said...

Chip, what is the lower age limit for recipients of your pro bono work and have you any trips up north planned in the near future, just, err, out of interest, you know, I mean I'm not saying that a man will only undress in my presence as an act of charity you understand...

Chip Dale said...

Rilly, I don't have a lower limit as much as willingness to take each case on its individual merit. If you've got some ailment that might be helped by the Chipster's magical thong, then you simply ask and I'll see what I can do.

I've offered the same services to the Wife in the North but she's yet to reply, so feel free to make your case.

(I don't treat any infectious skin ailments, though).