Vicky is in her 20s. She enjoys a good male strip show.
"I've seen most of 'em dance before," she yells over the din. "I used to come every Thursday night for months and months, and I've spent lots of money." Which is not to say she's jaded. Vicky is just as excited as her friend, who volunteers that she "is a virgin--this is my first time!" What the?? "No, no! At a strip club! Ha, ha, ha!"
I ask Vicky something really stupid, what the attraction here is. "Men. It's kind of like, you know how men are attracted to females? It's the same way, but opposite. It's like when a good-looking guy walks by--wow!"

Troy is a good-looking guy, and as he walks by me, I hear a lot of things. "Wow" is not one of them. He's a friendly, wholesome sort, says his dad is here to see him, and, like Randy, claims to make "an awesome living!" (Most of what people say here demands an exclamation point after it; it's that kind of night.) If you can imagine a kind of sweet, gawky Jimmy Stewart personality in the body of Baryshnikov--which I can't--you've got Troy.

"I'm just a farm kid, I'm flattered that anyone would even think to give me money for this," says the five-year veteran. "I lifted a few weights, grew up on a farm, I never thought I was better looking than . . ."
Flushed and tongue-tied, he continues. "I'm really flattered. The girls are really generous!"

The master of ceremonies, a swarthy gent with a deejay voice and a sleeveless tux shirt, takes the stage. "How many of you ladies busted your ass all week long, in the home, in the office?"

"And how many of you did not get enough pay or respect for the shit you had to do?"
YYYAAAA!!! "Well, tonight, tonight, you get to be the boss. So when these men hit the floor, what are you going to tell them to do? On three, I want to hear everybody say it at the same time--TAKE IT OFF!!!

"Who wants to see a little muscle tonight? And some hard buns? Well, we got it all for you and more! Ladies, we have about 30 men here tonight . . ."
"Goddamn!! Aren't you a bunch of horny animals!!!" So this is it. The raw, uninhibited, lust-crazed, animal essence of female, thousands strong, right before my very eyes. Craning, screaming, writhing, hyperventilating. A planet of women in control gone mad. I've never seen anything like it--other than in a handful of one-on-one situations, of course--unless you count old footage of Beatles concerts.

Ladies in attendance celebrating special occasions--birthdays, divorces, etc.--are brought onstage to sit in folding chairs. They stuff bills into parts of their clothing and various body crevices; the dancers' job is to pluck the money out. With their mouths. But they work hard for the money; these boys have acts. Choreography, props, little costumes held together with Velcro that come apart at dramatic moments. There's a dude up there right now dressed as a waiter, feeding a seated woman fruit, deftly removing bills and ripping his clothes off. The emcee announces, "Now it's time for the banana! How many think you could take the whole thing?!" The waiter grips a yellow Chiquita, holds it where his johnson would be and slowly peels. Puts whipped cream on the tip, and, tender yet firm, places it into the girl's mouth. She scarfs and grins; it is beyond shame, I tell you. But wait! Forget about the fruit waiter scenario--suddenly this is a camping trip! A sleeping bag materializes, he unfurls it and magically builds a fire, right there onstage. Begins a sort of ritualistic dance around the flames while the lucky lass sits dazed, then, apparently overcome with the fire's tremendous heat, he is forced to douse himself with a conveniently soaked towel.

The place goes apeshit as the emcee pipes up: "Anybody getting horny out there?"

And then we come to Randy, The Master Blaster, up there in full cowpoke regalia; long, stone-washed dusters, red leather chaps, dark brown Stetson. Well, he is from Dallas. But he's got a secret weapon, his personal touch to drive 'em wild. Randy is wearing six G-strings.

That means six times the yearning, six times the thrills, six times the money, each time he tosses one out to the crowd. I have to admit, the man knows what he's doing, exhibiting 15 years of determination, perseverance and job security with every bump and grind. Somewhere around G-string number four, he's at the edge of the stage with his barely concealed wang inches from some young woman's flushed face. She has bucks stuffed deep between her breasts, poking out of her halter top. He plucks them out (the bucks), sticks his butt out and moves the damn thing up and down. She looks like Jesus has just come down from heaven to tell her that Santa Claus is real. I don't need to see this.

While all this mayhem is going on, I notice a few women off in the corner playing darts. What gives? It's all a plot, natch; they're strategically situated where the dancers pass, going on and offstage. "We get a more personal view," Lois tells me. "There's a lot of traffic through here, and we get a lot more comments because they get all insulted if they think you're not watching them." They're having a double bachelorette party tonight, and it's not the first one they've spent at a Body Heat show.

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I went to the strip off and had an amazing time. A friend of mine works for the Savage Men Male Strip Clubs in Atlantic City New Jersey and became one of the finalists. It was great to see the diversity and theatrics of the acts but it ultimately came down to the male strippers bodies. Hands down the East coast has the best acts with a lot of thought and production value while a lot of the other dancers just jump around. You can see the difference at 

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