Love & Sex

I Did It for Science: Ladies Night

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imageI Did It For Science by Grant Stoddard

Survive protracted evening of physical scrutiny and performance anxiety as a featured male stripper — and maybe score a few bucks, too.

State your hypothesis in the form of a prediction that can be verified by the results of the experiment.

Like most entertainers, I’m of a nervous and slightly fragile disposition to begin with. And now I’m going to bare almost everything for scores of rowdy New York ladies. What doesn’t kill me will make me stronger but my chances of surviving the night don’t look great.

Please list all the materials required for this experiment (including, if applicable, how they were obtained).

Fake moustache (one)
Karate outfit (one)
Bathing suit, “Euro-style” (one)

In this portion of your report, you must describe step-by-step what you did in your lab. It should be specific enough that someone who has not seen the lab can follow the directions and recreate the same lab.

I discovered I would be dancing at the Male Lap Dance Party thrown by Cake (the NY-based female sexual lifestyle entertainment company), a mere thirty hours before show-time. Had I been given a chance to prepare, I would have a) made good on my promises to join a gym and get jacked, b) learned how to dance in a sexy fashion and c) rid myself of some stubborn shoulder pimples (or bacne) with some of that stuff Jennifer Love Hewitt uses. My friend and co-worker Brian Battjer had arranged this “opportunity” and, when I tried to weasel out of going, said that he would also participate for moral support.

On a theme tip, I chose to wear a karate uniform over a red paisley under-garment that could best be described as a banana-hammock. A fake moustache gave me the confidence to go through with this experiment (or at the very least, the confidence not to run away crying like a ninny). Brian and I met up with Nerve’s Em and Lo at a bar downtown to get some tips on what a girl wants, not to mention some Dutch courage. Lo ran us through some fail-safe moves while Em stressed the importance of eye contact.

We arrived at the venue and found our way into a stuffy little dressing room. Assembled there was a diverse cross-section of males, from a brown skinned, statuesque Adonis to a bearded medievalist to a Tiny Tim look-alike. Many had brought their own music and pre-rehearsed dance routines. One model-looking guy was even contemplating tying off, a technique whereby one manipulates one’s member to achieve “chub” by tying material around the base of one’s unit thereby restricting out-bound blood flow. “It’s risky,” he told me. “More than twenty minutes and you might rupture.”

The plan was we would each introduce ourselves and strip on stage before heading out into the audience and getting jiggy for pocket lettuce. Amber, one of the Cake girls, was trying to organize our motley crew back stage, but it was an impossible task. “Amber, can I go on first?” “Amber, can you clear some space on stage for my routine?” “Amber, can we have some more booze?” I peeked through the curtain at the back of the stage and saw that Em and Lo had fought their way to the table closest to the stage, claiming it as their own. As the first stud was introduced, Lo produced a piercing scream and bum-rushed the stage. This continued until one guy finished his hard-core performance by stubbing out a lit cigarette on his bare chest. Then, it was my turn. My heart in my throat, Amber took my hand and led me onto the stage.

Quantify the effects of the experiment.

“My name is Daniel-San!” I screamed into the mic before launching into an impromptu Enter the Dragon–inspired dance routine, making full use of the dancing pole. Some guys had already climbed it, some had swung, so I chose to rather coyly slide my arse up and down it. I figured that the only way to come out of this without too much psychological damage was to inject a fair amount of comedy into my shtick. I needed to make an impression. I slid the karate pants halfway down my bare bum, wagging a finger at the assembled lady-horde while dramatically mouthing things like “Uh, Uh, Uh!” ” You can’t touch!” and “Not for you, honey!”

Okay, they were laughing. I had brought them joy. It was time to show them the goods while they were still on my side.

I opened the karate jacket and tore my Nerve T-shirt off my chest. I ran the belt between my legs and did some high kicks before I got rid of the pants altogether. I half-closed my eyes and danced over to a pack of women waving dollar bills at me. En masse, they made up a swaying coral reef of red nail polish and hard cash. I grimaced as one by one they pinched my Lycra shorts between finger and thumb, pulled the garment out a few inches from my body and with wild, wide eyes, tucked in a greenback. I ran backstage to tally up. It’s a weird experience, pulling Washingtons and Lincolns from in between your twig and berries, but one that’s not entirely unpleasant. I was going to go up for another turn on stage but the dancing pole had just given way under the weight of Tiny Tim’s doppelganger.

“We stand a better chance of surviving if we stay together.”
—Russell Crowe in Gladiator

With this in mind, Brian and I formed a unified lap-dancing duo. We were immediately herded over to a table of wet-lipped gal pals reclining in anticipation. Brian strutted over to the first lucky lady of the evening. He seemed a lot more at ease with rubbing his junk on strangers’ thighs. (Possibly not a huge departure from his normal nighttime activities.) I was more coy than even I expected and found myself just clapping my hands, chanting “Go Brian, go Brian!” a few yards behind the action.

“Uh-uh. Now I want you!” gushed Brian’s new friend.

I sashayed over to her and halfheartedly swayed between her thighs. I’ve never felt more vulnerable in my entire life. When “Ms. Happyhands” dug her nails into my cheeks and smacked ’em vengefully, it occurred to me there were no threatening-looking bouncers enforcing the look-but-don’t-touch rule. So who was looking out for us? I was about to protest but she told me that my bum was firmer than Brian’s, which helped to take the sting out of her powerful strokes. We went on dancing until 3 a.m., when the “ladies” were all out of dollar bills and resorted to paying us in kind.

Summarize your findings. Don’t forget to attempt to identify possible variables that could result in different findings for others trying to recreate your test results.

It’s really a lot of pressure, being a debutante lap dancer. If you make a career out of it, you can sculpt yourself — physically and mentally — into that role. You can become a full-time object of desire and just turn it up a notch when you’re on the job. But for a short, fairly unremarkable fellow like myself, it’s a bit of a stretch. Being sexy to strangers on demand is more difficult than it sounds, especially when you can’t dance and your chest looks like two aspirin on an ironing board. My saving grace was my well-honed, vaudevillian, physical humor. I’m in my comfort zone with the ridiculous. The women were pretty comfortable with my silliness as well, if the amount of booty in my booty was any indication. Men go to strip clubs to get turned on. These ladies, lucky for me, came to laugh.

© 2002 Grant Stoddard and Nerve.com, Inc.