Backstage At Chippendales Read Free Page A

to?” 
    “Well here’s John-Paul right now,” she says.
    I turn and, just then, feel a hand on my right shoulder. Attached to it is a mass of long, curly, dark hair, and from within which comes a voice with a
     
     
     
    distinct British accent—“Aaah, fresh meat, I see [meaning me].  And how are you today, Geneva?”
    Blushing, Geneva responds in a lilting voice, “Oh, I’m just fine, John-Paul.”
    “So I’m J.P.” he says to me, extending his right hand, his left still on my shoulder. I shake his hand firmly, and introduce myself “I’m Greg, and I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.” 
    “Don’t worry,” J.P. says, “It’s you’re first night here...yes?”
    “Yeah.” I reply.
    “Don’t worry,” J.P. nods reassuringly, “we’ll get you set up here in no time, and you’ll be meeting and greeting the ladies like a pro.”  NOW THIS WAS MORE LIKE IT! Now here was a fellow who gave you the feeling that he really knew what he was talking about!  …And with that, J.P. promptly turned away and left…never to return that whole night. 
    “That answer your question, honey?” Geneva quipped, smiling at me through the glass.  Motioning at me, she says “Now go on down that hallway and down the stairs and get changed. You haven’t much time before the ladies start showing up. I don’t want to have to be entertaining ‘em myself. It’s YOU they want to see, not me. Go on now. Down that hallway, down the stairs and to the left…and hurry back!” 
     
     
     
    And so I went, down that hallway, down those stairs, and to the left, and you wouldn’t frikkin’ believe the “changing room” that it led to—it was truly a spectacle to behold. I stopped dead in my tracks and stood there, dumbfounded, taking it all in just watching in utter disbelief. The room was twenty by twenty or so, mirrors on all four walls, and about fifteen guys were in the room, yet no one noticed me, not for a few seconds at least. They were all too obsessed on themselves. You see, all of these huge, chiseled, macho, hulking guys was staring intently at their reflections, each putting on face and body stage makeup, foundation, eyeliner, mascara, a few blowdrying their hair, but all looking very primpy, prissy and girly in whatever they were doing. Finally one of the biggest guys took notice of me, and in a scarily-deep baritone voice barked at me (and pointing, yet without dropping his makeup sponge), “Get me a cranberry and soda!”
    “Um,” I stammered, “I’m just here to change. Its my first night.”
    “You’re not a waiter?!” he bellowed at me.
    “Um, no, I’m just a host.”
    “Dammit, where’s J.P.?!? Somebody get me a fucking cranberry and soda!!”
    “I saw him,” I said, my voice shaking a little, “but I don’t know
    where he went.”
    “Well if you see him…”
     
     
    “I know, I know, I’ll have him bring you a cranberry and soda!”
    “NO, new guy . Have him bring me a fucking cranberry and soda.”
    This hulk of a guy glowered at me, but there was the slightest hint of a smile—thank God—this guy was just screwing with me. This guy later turned out to be the immortal Bernie Davis, head honcho of all the L.A. Chippendales dancers.  More on him later.
    Anyway, since I’d worn my spandex trousers underneath my [cool] Z-Cavaricci jeans, all my “changing” entailed was taking off my boots, then my jeans, putting my boots back on, and then putting my Velcro-affixed collar and cuffs in place. Bing bang boom and I was ready—I stuffed my jeans and my jacket in my gym bag, and hoofed it back on up the stairs, with the big guy yelling once again at my back as I left “Remember, new guy ...!”
    “I know, a fucking cranberry and soda!” I shouted back as I went.  Momentarily, I wondered whether a “ fucking cranberry and soda” was perhaps somehow different than a regular “cranberry and soda.”  Maybe…but it wasn’t my problem…it was J.P.’s problem.