Saturday, October 06, 2007

Tony Curtis's Pineapple Chunks

Because I consider myself a professional, I rarely talk about my life on the stage. To you, it might seem exotic, but for me, it’s just a well hung normality dressed in a leopard-print thong. When you get down to the nuts and bolts of it (and there, I think, you have a most perfectly appropriate euphemism for the tools of my trade) the business of stripping is pretty routine.

I get to the club about half past nine at night and go straight to my dressing room where I strip off and rub myself down with pineapple oil. Then I choose an outfit for the character I’ll become for the evening. It usually depends on my mood and what kind of humour I’m in. I know that if I dress like a postman, I’ll have plenty of remarks about pushing envelopes into slots, delivering packages, or filthy comments about the size of my sack. My plumber outfit doesn’t get half as many comments and the policeman’s fewer still. My traffic warden gets the least, with the ‘you can write my ticket any time’ being about the best I can expect.

At five to ten, I usually go and stand behind the curtain at the edge of the stage and watch the end of the warm-up’s act. As it get closer to my moment to perform, I begin to feel the familiar sensation of nerves. It’s not the fear of failure as much as the anticipation of mediocrity that worries me, but as soon as I hear the first strains of the theme to The Persuaders, all my doubts disappear. The adrenaline hits my system like a drug injected strait into my thong. I’m suddenly the most confident man in the room as I run out to the sound of female glands snapping open to release the pheromones that rise above the crowd like a great cloud of animal musk.

Over the years, I’ve got my act honed to perfection. The Chipster’s magic is in the detail. So, as was the case last night when I was dressed like a cowboy, I’ll run onto the stage, pull out my imaginary pistols and point them at a few ladies at the front of the crowd before blowing smoke from my fingertips. The ladies love that authentic cowboy touch. As I say, it’s the details that are important. Only then do I begin the slow and elaborate dance number that will end with a thong flying into the back row ten minutes later.

In that respect, last night was pretty much like a normal night. Even when I was stood waiting behind the curtain, I could hear that the room was buzzing, loud with the excited ladies of Bangor’s income tax office, all waiting for The Chipster to make his usual 10PM appearance. I didn’t disappoint John Barry’s Persuader’s theme put me straight into the zone. Adjusting my cowboy hat one last time, I jumped out into the spotlight and my hips hit the rhythm straight away, swaying to those great sweeping strains. In my mind’s eye, I was Roger Moore about to dance with a bald Tony Curtis. And there, I think, you have another most perfectly appropriate euphemism.

So, I danced. My hips swaying, my hips thrusting, my thong swinging, my buttocks clenching. It was a typical routine expertly performed and the ladies loved it as the ladies always love it. After ten minutes, the thong had gone and our old friend, the oily Tony Curtis, was bouncing around and loving being the centre of attention.

Then it was time for me to end my routine and get Curtis out of the room.

The way I usually finish my act is to choose the one lady who has looked the most enthusiastic throughout my performance and to reward her with a special shake of my hips. Tonight I picked out a woman in the front row who had a most unbelievable look of rapture in her eyes. She couldn’t stop staring at me.

I slowly wiggled my way over to her.

‘Show the Chipster some love,’ I said as I took her hands and placed them on my hips.

‘Oh!’ she squealed suddenly, her eyes not blinking as they took in the sight but her hands immediately squeezing my hips. ‘Shake if for me honey. Show Shelia the good stuff.’
And then, as is usual, her hands slipped down and grabbed hold of my buttocks.

That happens most times and I’m used to having my behind pawed. I just think of it as a massage and the ladies usually enjoy it. she smiled as the ladies always smile. Only unlike most woman, who usually look to their friends for encouragement, this woman couldn’t take her eyes off the little bald headed monster called Curtis.

‘You go the moves, honey,’ she said, giving me another squeeze.

None of this stuck me as being all that odd. I was in a familiar role and I was only too happy to dance at bit longer for somebody who seemed to have a particular thing for the Chipster.

Only, I must have been grinding my hips for a minute or so before I noticed something moving at the side of her chair. I didn’t give it much mind at first, it being so dark in the room, but then it moved again and I saw a head pop up beside the woman’s lap. It was a dog. A big, dumb, friendly-looking dog!

Now, there’s a strict ‘no animals’ policy in force at the Green Dragon. Not that we usually need to stop people bring pets into the place, but you never know with some of these lonely women. Sometimes ‘Little Fifi’ can’t stay at home without ‘Mumsy Mummy’. Only, this wasn’t the sort of dog you’d call Fifa. It was a hefty beast, a bit bedraggled, and, besides, it had a jacket on.

I say it was a jacket. It was actually more like a bright yellow sash with reflective patches.

That’s when I realised that it was a guide dog. And the woman who had been nose to chin with Tony Curtis for the last few minutes was obviously its owner. It was no wonder she’d be starting so intently as Curtis. She didn’t even know he was in the room. The woman was completely blind.

I looked down at her smiling face, a bit shocked at my predicament. It altered my plans. There was no way I could just pull myself away from a blind woman who was so clearly enjoying herself. And she had quite a grip on my buttocks. I doubted if I could get away if I’d wanted to.
I looked around at all the other woman who were shouting, whooping, and enjoying themselves. What could I do? I looked at the dog and the dog looked at me. That’s when I thought I better make the most of a difficult situation. I thought I’d show a bit of kindness to her dog and use that as my chance to run for the stage.

I gave the dog a friendly pat on the head and the dog, all friendly, licked my fingers and carried on licking it until I pulled my hand away.

Only now, of course, my hand is all wet and I’m still trapped in the grasp of a woman who could see neither me nor Curtis. I thought I’d give it another minute of dancing, so I looked to the ceiling, took a deep breath and started on some hip thrusts which just made every woman in the room scream even louder. All that is except one. She just kept on staring. And then she started to tickle me.

I don’t know how to describe this politely except to say that she was tickling the balls of Tony Curtis’s feet.

I know what you’re thinking and I thought it too. Tickling a man there, even a stripper, is such an odd thing to do. In fact, it had never happened to me before. A lady might occasionally try to touch something that shouldn’t be touched but that’s part of the business. Rarely do they tickle the balls of Curtis’s feet. What made it odder was that all the time she was tickling me, she didn’t take her hands from my behind.

That’s when I realised that there was no way the woman could have been tickling me.
I suddenly went cold. I could barely bring myself to look down, fearing what I might see. But as the tickling before more enthusiastic, I realised I had no choice. I had to look.

I immediately saw what had happened. In moving her legs apart to pull me closer to her, the woman had left a large gap through which her guide dog had pushed his head and was now busy, down below, licking me clean of pineapple oil.

I really don’t know if I can go on…

This is getting into areas where I never thought the Chipster would go. This is the stuff you hear about from friends who ventured into the wrong newsagents in Amsterdam. You don’t expect to see a stripper dancing for a blind woman while her guide dog licks pineapple oil from a stripper’s business accessories. Or at least, you don’t expect to see it going on in Bangor. All I do know is that strippers have lost their licenses for doing lesser things with animals.

I was in a precarious situation. Not only was I facing profession ruin, I didn’t fancy pulling myself away from the animal too quickly. If you’ve ever tried to take a bone from a hungry dog, you’d know that they’re likely to take a last nip at the departing meat. It made this one of those situations in which legends are born. Unfortunately, it was also the sort of situation in which legends die. Or at least have something bitten off.

I decided the best policy was one of negotiation.

‘Excuse me,’ I said to the woman.

‘Oh, you’re not going?’ she asked, her hands tightening on my behind.

‘No, no,’ I said, ‘I was just thinking – and I know this is an odd time to ask you this – but do you happen to own a dog?’

‘I do own a dog, yes, why?’

‘And did you bring your dog with you this evening?’

‘I did,’ she smiled.

I nodded as I tried to concentrate. ‘And did you leave your dog at the side of your chair?’

‘I always do. Macca’s never far away.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ I said. ‘I think it’s your dog that’s currently licking me.’

‘Licking you?’ she asked. ‘Licking you where?’

I struggled as I tried to concentrate. ‘Higher than my knees, lower than my nose,’ I said, thinking that the situation was bad enough without being vulgar about it.

‘Oh,’ she said, apologetically, ‘he can be so naughty.’

My hips froze. ‘He?’

‘Of course he’s a he. That’s why I call him Macca,’ she explained. ‘I named him after Paul McCartney.’

Things could only have got worse if was actually the ex-Beatle licking me clean down there. I felt my stomach clench and my hips slow to a gentle grind.

‘Well, he seems to have a taste for pineapple oil,’ I said.

Her face peeled apart as a smile spread across her face.

‘He loves pineapple,’ she said proudly. ‘I always give him pineapple chunks in his bowl. He loves pineapple chunks.’

‘Yes, well, there are two chunks I hope he doesn’t fancy chewing.’

She suddenly looked impatient as I tried to ease myself back.

‘Oh, don’t stop now,’ she said, ‘I’m enjoying this.’

I felt like crying. ‘Is there anything else he likes except pineapple?’ I asked.

‘He loves chocolate drops.’

‘Well he might get an extra big chocolate drop if he doesn’t let me go,’ I said, feeling my nerves get the better of my stomach which clenched and made my bowels shift uneasily. ‘I don’t suppose you have chocolate drops in your bag?’ I asked.

Her hands slid from my body but by now I didn’t dare more.

‘I think I do,’ she said, feeling for her bag. ‘Here you go,’ she finally said, handing me a small bag of milk chocolate buttons. ‘What you going to do with them?’

I ripped open the bag and filled my hands with the chocolate treats.

I barely looked down. I didn’t think I could bear to see what the dog was doing. Instead, I lay my hand next to the dog’s head and waited.

I seemed to wait an age before he moved. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tony Curtis look as happy as he did when the dog went for the nibbles. I grabbed Macca by his collar, took his owner’s hand, and placed one into the other. And then, with the briefest wave to the crowd and ran to the stage. I didn’t even stop to pick up my clothes.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Stan, the stage manager as I flew past him. ‘You were a while out there.’

I couldn’t explain. From somewhere below the stage, a dog gave a long mournful howl, as though regretting the biggest pineapple chunks never to have graced his dish.

5 comments:

Shades said...

What a sweet, caring story. Professional to the end, as usual, Chip

Lord Higham-Johnson said...

Nice shot of Tony, Chip - he's looking great, as are you of course [don't get me wrong].

Daily Referendum said...

Not much luck with dogs Chippy.

William Gruff said...

I read your blog often and you have bigger balls than I. I take my hat, and nothing else, off to you.

Big Chip Dale said...

Shades, I'm always professional. It's what keeps me at the top.

Lord Higham, he's bald you know? I just couldn't find the picture to prove it.

Steve, never lucky with dogs but this one was better than most. At least it only licked. It didn't bite.

William, many thanks. Good to know there are some regular readers. I take off my hat to you too. Of course, you don't say where you wear your hat.