by Nick Molloy
There were a disturbing number of similar personality traits between him and Mr Multiface, they were just different in the way they manifested themselves. Both clearly felt the need to be the centre of attention in the room they were in. Multiface tended to do this by making himself louder than those around him, Bells by dramatic hand gestures and head movements. I concluded that both of them were actually quite insecure, this was palpably demonstrated in their need to be the centre of attention. They were wanting to feel loved and adored by those around them. I wondered if this was a by-product of them acting on the stage. Or were they acting ? Did the man create the character or was the character simply an extension of the man ? It was too early for me to tell. Although I was yet to have any reason to suspect, I guessed that both Bells and Multiface would have a tendency to be somewhat mendacious when it suited them. The fragility of their egos probably meant that a few porkies at the expense of their fellow performers boosted their own self esteem when they needed it.
Bells and Jason were quite clearly gay. At that time, I was only just starting to come into contact with the gay world, mainly through working with various photographers. Bells fitted the stereotype of a camp, effeminate man. Jason was the opposite. I wondered whether this was an example of the Arthur and Martha type of gay couple I had been told about (where one plays the woman in the relationship).
At the time, it didn’t seem obvious to me that all drag queens must be gay. Taking things at face value, I had heard and assumed through the popularist media (therefore it is probably not to be trusted), that various men from all facets of society had fetishes that caused them to dress up in women’s clothes, quite often the clothes of their wives. To date, I’m yet to meet a performing drag queen that isn’t gay. I once did a show in deepest Essex, where the pub was full of men dressed very badly as women (some with beards) and a couple had female partners with them. However, talking to them after the show, they admitted to me that they bi-sexual.
All this isn’t to say that there are no straight drag queens out there, I’m sure there are one or two, but they are very thin on the ground. I could go on now for a whole book length about gender identity, but I’ll keep it brief. What was interesting about my meeting with Sissy Bells was how it made me think about stereotyping. When I was younger I was always a staunch advocate against stereotyping, primarily because I don’t fit one. There hasn’t been a box built yet that you could put me in. Experience has made me change my view on stereotyping. I now believe that the majority of most population groups have behaviour traits that do fit a stereotype. However, we must be careful not to characterize everybody in the same way and tar everybody with the same brush just because they belong to a certain clan. We should only be able to stereotype somebody after we have enough information to make an informed decision. Anything else would be prejudicial and that is simply unacceptable. Prejudice is one of my pet hates and in my role as a stripper, I often get to see people at their most raw. Their prejudices are frequently revealed and heightened, much of it directed directly at me.
Anyway, I found Bells a little difficult to handle. He fired short, snappy questions at me in much the same way as an overzealous teacher attempts to exert their superiority on a schoolboy. In many ways it was like I was interviewing for a position in his company. He would also make continual camp, sexual references and innuendo throughout his diatribe. I rarely get flustered to the stage where I would show it to anybody and Bells certainly wasn’t going to achieve that. I took an instant dislike to him. By contrast, I quite liked Jason.
When Bells realized that his abrasive manner wasn’t going to upset me he recoiled a little and relaxed more in my presence. He and Jason began bitching about other drag queens and Jason said that if I stuck with them they would look after me. To this date, I’m not really sure what was meant by that. I think, they were trying to put me off working for other drag queens. They were also stressing how important it was to be reliable and this was the first inkling I got that strippers were not the most punctual or trustworthy bunch of people. Eventually, Bells took me up stairs and cut the music for me before sending me on my way. As I left he’d said he’d be in touch with some work soon.
Chapter 5 – My First Time
It wasn’t long before Michael had arranged my first show. It was to be in a gay bar in west London called Bromptons, a staunch favourite on the gay scene. They had four strippers on stage every Sunday night and a further one in the middle of the week. Michael knew the staff well at Bromptons and he’d put in a good word, so they agreed to try me out.
The day before I was due to make my debut I received a call from a guy who said he had acquired my number from Michael. He wanted me to strip that evening somewhere in Kent. I actually declined the offer (very politely), which didn’t go down too well with him. I should have learned at that point that a stripper never declines work. Instead, he ‘is busy’ with other work. I have found out since that bookers do bear grudges and one sure fire way to trigger it is to turn down one of their jobs.
I hardly ever turn work away now, but if I do I know how to do it the correct way. I primarily declined the job because it was the night of the Tyson-Lewis fight. I had ordered it on pay per view and a couple of track mates of mine were coming round for what was sure to be an entertaining evening. Also, I had never done a show before and wasn’t quite sure what to expect or even how the evenings went. I wanted to get the first one under my belt under Michael’s watchful eye.
The next evening I made my way to Bromptons on the train. The thought of driving through London traffic without knowing where I was going was enough to give me nightmares. Although I still detest the London traffic I now travel to every show by car (the new GPS systems are a big help).
I found the venue no problem, wondered inside and introduced myself as the stripper. “You’ll be Michael’s new guy” came back the reply. “Follow me, I’ll take you to him”. I was led through a fairly dark nightclub, down a few steps where Michael greeted me and introduced me to a couple of other fairly old guys. They were positioned near the front of the house, just in front of a large, brightly lit, elevated stage. It had an elevated walkway extending a few feet out from the stage and I wondered whether this was for modelling purposes.
Michael shuffled his way forward tugging my arm, leading me to the dressing room, next to the stage. We walked through a door into a small area full of bric-a-brac and immediately next to this was the dressing room. Any delusions of grandeur I might have had were instantly shattered then. The dressing room was a 6 x 3 foot room consisting of a small sink and dresser next to the sink. There was a rather grubby looking adjoining toilet. As far as dressing rooms go, this was not such a bad one, as I was soon to discover.
I began to lay out my costume when a gentleman entered and asked me for my music. He then said I was to be on stage in 30 minutes. One of the most common things people say to me after shows is “I don’t know how you do that”. When you press them further, what they mean is that they couldn’t do it because they would be too embarrassed. This usually leads onto the question of whether I ever get nervous before shows. I never do and this reply is nearly always followed by “what about the first time”. The answer remains the same, which is often met with incredulity.
Well here I was at the first show and I swear to you I wasn’t nervous. If we could measure nerves on a scale then sure, I was more nervous the first time than I am today. However, I would use the term uncertain rather than nervous. I always draw the comparison with running 400m or stepping into a boxing ring, both of which make me very nervous. If someone is coming at you trying to knock your head off, that’s scary because you might get hurt. When I used to be told by the coach that I would be running the 400m on Saturday, I had to steady myself by holding onto the nearest immovable object and sit down to regain my composure ! It terrified me. It isn’t possible to sprint 400m all the way. If you are very fit, for the first 35 seconds or so you will use up all the reserves in your an
aerobic phospo-creatinese system before your aerobic gycolosis system takes over. Your muscles start to disobey your brain’s orders as they fill with lactic acid, your lungs feel like they are about to explode and you feel dizzy/sick. As you come into the home straight it is like being in one of those nightmares where you are being chased by monsters. Even though you are trying to run away your legs are like leaden weights. I remember once leading into the home straight only to be passed by virtually the whole field before the line. I always imagined everybody in the stands pointing and laughing until their sides hurt. I’m laughing at this as I write, it certainly looked hilarious when it happened to my mates ! One guy even collapsed exhausted before crossing the line. It just didn’t feel funny when it happened to be you on the receiving end. I liken the 400m to having a safe near death experience. Even when you win, it feels like hell.
The point I am trying to make it that after running 400m for so long, very few other things scare me or make me nervous. I never did completely get over my fear of the 400m, primarily because I knew no matter what I did, it would be torturous (unless I jogged it of course). When competing in some other sports I have had no nerves. Powerlifting for example, is not frightening. It is one short burst of effort, but no real pain. When I ran the 200m it was very different to the 400m. It would hurt a little bit towards the end, but nowhere near like the 400m. Whenever I have competed in anything, the adrenalin kicks in as the competition draws close. This certainly keeps you alert and a little on edge, but not necessarily so that it consumes you completely reducing you to a useless bag of nerves. This is how it tends to be with stripping. Twenty minutes before I go on stage I sometimes feel that little adrenalin rush. I find that there is more adrenalin if I am about to try out a new routine or resurrect something I haven’t done for a while. That is, I am stepping slightly further into the reaches of my comfort zone. However, I have never felt anything worse than running a 200m before I am about to go on stage and that means I am well within my comfort zone.
That first time was certainly my most uncomfortable. It was like I was preparing for a 200m. There was more adrenalin than there would be today, an air of apprehension and uncertainty. I was after all stepping completely into the unknown. I put on the boxing boots first as they took so long to lace up. Everything else followed fairly quickly. The most difficult and time consuming bit was the process of tying off. Michael left me in peace to have a wank in private. Not that it mattered or matters. I have become completely blasé about wanking in front of people. I do after all tell people that I am now a professional wanker. By that stage I had been doing it for the photographers so it made little difference now that I was doing it for stripping.
I tied off a little too soon in my eagerness to be ready (I now leave tying off to the very last minute possible) put on the rest of my costume and waited eagerly for the music to start. It wasn’t long before Eye of the Tiger began booming out of the speakers and I stepped through the stage door into the bright, glaring lights.
To tell the truth, I remember very little of that first performance. Of course I was concentrating on my routine, on what I had to do next and listening intently to the music for my cues. I emerged onto the stage and began shadow boxing with my back to the audience. When I turned around and threw back the hood from my gown I could just about make out the hazy faces in the audience. The lights were gleaming down on me and it was difficult to see beyond them. If I stepped towards the front of the stage and beyond the intense glare of the lights, I could see the faces staring vividly, intently, dissecting my every move.
When I am on stage today, I am aware of everything that is going on around me. Events might as well be taking place in slow motion. My mind can just as easily be elsewhere; I could be thinking about tomorrow’s training session or my forthcoming tactics to pull the girl I have just spied in the audience. That first time however, I was a mirror of concentration and it probably showed. I don’t even remember bringing my ‘victims’ onto stage.
Most strippers will invariably choose ‘victims’ from the audience and pull them up onto stage. The victims’ exposure varies from light embarrassment to severe humiliation to acts of a more sexual nature. Personally, I have always erred towards the former. It just seems more respectful towards somebody I in all likelihood don’t actually know personally.
I do remember exiting the stage to rapturous applause from a highly appreciative audience. As much as they were very polite and welcoming I couldn’t help but feeling that their appreciation was more of the ‘good effort’ kind as opposed to the ‘great show’ type.
I hadn’t done a particularly good job of tying off. it would take me more than a few attempts to actually get it right. A couple of people actually said as much afterwards. One in particular said that the fact my dick wasn’t as big as it might have been was actually turning him on !
Whilst I was packing my costume away, a tall lanky dark haired gent burst into the dressing area. He handed me a clipboard with a pen and bade me to fill in a few details such as my name and address. Upon completion he handed me £90 in cash. I was now a professional stripper.
I emerged from the ‘dressing room’ and wondered over to Michael for feedback. The reports were promising he said. Everybody seemed to have liked me and “you were just so cool and relaxed out there, especially considering it was your first time”.
A few of the slightly lecherous old men made their way over and seemed very keen to talk to me. I was and always am happy to chat to people after shows. The venues pay my wages and it only seems reasonable that I am pleasant and accommodating towards their customers. Nevertheless, that first time, their chosen topics of conversation were a little alien to me. As mentioned, one punter was very keen to tell me how turned on he had been because I hadn’t tied off all that well. At the time I just stared at him blankly. How was I meant to react – was I meant to thank him on a veiled compliment ? Another seemed content to bore me with stories of other stripping performances. I listened as intently as I could, feigning enthusiasm beyond my actual interest (I was trying to be polite). To this day I have little interest in the performance of other male strippers. It can be useful to watch them both to assess the competition and garner ideas. Yet, as a pastime, its entertainment value has always been lost on me. Therefore, listening to the ravings of an incessant strip fan wasn’t really my idea of a great night out !
Then there was Bonny. A tall, bald Scottish guy came over and began talking with no introduction. His opening topic of conversation was how he had been dragged onto stage by a stripper the other week and how he had been made to get his dick out on stage. He then went on to say how if it had been erect, it would have been much bigger than the stripper’s in question. Again I ask – how is one meant to react when confronted with such …well….strangeness ? I gave him a sort of knowing ‘oh’ by nodding my head. He then had a habit of ceasing to talk and staring intently at me without uttering a word our faces only a couple of feet apart. I tried to engage him in a normal conversation, but he soon resorted back to his intense staring. I retreated to the sanctuary that was by Michael’s side and soon made my exit. I was followed by one punter back to the tube station. I was naturally a little suspicious of the attention, but I guess I should have really been saying hello to the world of celebrity (albeit in a minor way).
To the people who go out of their way to attend strip shows the stripper is an idol, a celebrity. I was as much a subject of fascination to them as say Marvelous Marvin Hagler is to me. If I was ever to meet Marvin, sure I’d want to talk to him. I once met Chris Eubank on a train going back to Brighton. I approached him and struck up a conversation. He gathered quickly that I wasn’t just your average fan in the street. I began to grill him about training methods and techniques and his experiences in boxing. Did he really avoid Roy Jones ? Did he train on the track ? What did he do to condition his abs for the constant rain of blows ? Did he really dislike Nigel Benn ? Had he planned his image so people would hate him
but therefore want to watch him lose (thereby getting more viewers and therefore more money) ? etc. My line of questioning was perhaps a little forthright and intrusive. He could have told me to take a running jump or answer politely. To his credit, he chose the latter.
I am continually bombarded with questions form people after shows, but obviously they are all stripping related. The favourite in gay venues relates to my sexual orientation. Other favourites are how did I get into stripping ? Does my family know ? Does my partner mind, etc. Like Eubank did with me, I always try to politely answer the questions.
That first night in Bromptons however, was a little unusual. Perhaps it was because Michael had already told them all about me, but they spoke to me as if they already knew me. It was as if I was performing for the umpteenth time and I was meeting old friends. It also struck me that night that I was more than just a stripper or a performer. I was a sexual object, something to adored and admired for the pleasure of the viewing audience.
This, of course, is to be expected. I was putting myself on a pedestal of sexuality. It was only natural to expect that people would go home and wank over my image and what they imagined they could get up to with me.
What I wasn’t prepared for was the forthrightness of the audience that night. Virtually every approach to me after the show had a sexual connotation, yet, without ever asking the question directly. Although, I was in my late 20s, the general consensus was that I could have been in my teens/early 20s. Most of the approaches were from men in their late 40s or early 50s. Assuming I was gay, would I really want to go and have a sexual liaison with them ? Wouldn’t I go and have one with someone my own age ? As a stripper (and therefore presumably fairly attractive), couldn’t I rightfully take my pick of the younger, better looking ones ? Also, how were they ever going to pull me if they didn’t actually ask ?
