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Authors: Greg Raffetto

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A Bloody Mess In Atlanta


One of my most gnarly recollections about doing promotions was when my friend Jeff Buck
well and I traveled to Atlanta to do a mall calendar signing. It was beyond gnarly…it was a bloody mess. Read on and you’ll see why I call it that.

Our hotel was a beautiful old Atlanta roundhouse with an arboretum in the middle.  It was an inspired piece of old Southern architecture.  After the flight, Jeff and I got to our room, which had two double beds in it.  We did the usual pre-promotion preparations, which consisted of very little food and a whole lot of pushups and sit-ups.

Now the mall calendar promotion itself went without a hitch.  We signed and mugged for camera shots as usual.  When we were finished, Jeff and I decided to go out to a nightclub that night, one that was suggested by some beautiful young ladies who had gotten calendars that day.  They worked as a waitress and a bartender at a certain nightclub.  After dressing in appropriate attire, Jeff and I headed out to the nightspot and it was hoppin’.

Jeff and I were greeted at the door by a huge bouncer, and as we removed our wallets to show ID and pay the cover charge, the bouncer says to us, “You guys are those two Chippendales from the mall today, aren’t




you?” Now Jeff and I weren’t dressed in any particularly “stripperish” fashion, but two really good-looking guys arriving together were either gay, or we were the two Chippendales from the mall, I guess.  So the big bouncer says to us, “You’re on the guestlist—you’re comped.”  Well, this was a fine piece of Southern hospitality indeed!  Grateful, we entered the busy nightspot.  It was crowded, but not so crowded that you couldn’t get a drink…and that’s where we made a beeline to—the bar.  Immediately, one of the waitresses came up to me and exclaimed “You CAME!”  “I wouldn’t miss it,” I said coyly, as though she and I had been friends for years.  Between you and me, any one of those waitresses could have approached me and I would have thought it was the one from the mall…we’d met probably a thousand gals that day.  Her name was Jennifer, and she immediately offered to buy Jeff and I a drink.  We accepted and had two “electric iced teas” which are like Long Island Iced Teas only with some blue stuff in them.  We had those most of the night, along with a bevy of my favorite, kamikaze and cranberry shooters.

Six drinks and sixty minutes later found Jeff and I having a rollicking good time.  I was with Jennifer, but when the whole club broke out into one of those group dances, I participated.  So here we are, the whole nightclub doing the “bus stop” dance and once again, like with all those other 8-count




routines, I’m the only one who just cant do it right—even among the white people.  What else is new.  God, I’m a bad dancer.  Left step, pivot, step right, aw fuck it.  Luckily, this waitress, Jennifer, isn’t after me for my dance moves. She served me up free drinks all night, and it was obvious what was coming. 

After the club closed, Jennifer and I were on each other, mauling each other like a couple of horny bears on crack-honey…we wanted just one thing. We returned to my hotel, and immediately, there was the obvious problem of privacy—the room had two double beds, with Jeff still in the room on the other one.  I made up my mind pretty quick that I needed another room.  Thank the Lord for my American Express Gold Card.  I remember when I applied for it, the lady taking my telephone application had said “Chippendales, well I know you all make a LOT of money.” Well, I did okay for myself, I thought.  I’d just be spending the money I’d made in tips that day, signing calendars, so I could pay the AMEX bill.  It was seventy-five dollars for their cheapest room, and I took it.  Jennifer was elated when I returned from the front desk with another key to another room, and so we hightailed it over there to fuck like monkeys.

We had scarcely gotten in the door and we were tearing each others’ clothes off.  She immediately dropped down and started giving me head.  I




was glad that I had been drinking, because I was less sensitive to her Hoover action (“whiskey dick”, again).  Pretty soon, I started to disrobe Jennifer, but, when I got her underwear off, I felt a string down there—oh no!!  “Sorry, I’m on my period,” she said.  I decided then and there that I was already fully invested in this get-together, and so I threw caution (and decency) to the wind.  “Can we do it anyway?” I asked, already the panting was audible in my breath. “Yeah, I guess,” she replied, “You don’t mind?” Relieved, my penis replied “I don’t mind, if you don’t.” My penis was clearly speaking for me at this point, and so I just let it do its thing, which at this point was getting the quickest route to her vagina and a whoooole lotta humping. 

We tore that place up with our lovemaking…if you can call it that. In point of fact, we fucked. We fucked like monkeys on crack and Twinkies.  We couldn’t get enough of each other. We did it like we both contained “the antidote.”  We fucked, and fucked, and fucked some more. On the bed, on the floor, in the bathtub, all over that darn room.  She kept bleeding the whole time, too—by morning, that place looked like a frikkin murder had been committed there. Seriously, we fucked that place up, but good.

Next morning came, and we hadn’t slept a wink. We’d fucked each other silly, all night long.  A knock came at the door.  It was Jeff, thankfully,




and not hotel management asking us to “hold it down.”  IHOP was the plan, and that sounded good to us. So after a quick shower, Jennifer, Jeff and I headed off to breakfast.  Jen and I ordered two ginormous breakfasts, and I’ll tell you we scarfed them down like Olympic runners after a day at the track meet national finals. 

When it came time for Jennifer and I to part ways, I felt I should give her something, since I had given her no less than four loads of my cum the night before.  I had but two Chippendales tank tops, white and black, and I gave her the black one. I wonder if she remembers me still—the Chippendale who fucked her lights out for one night of hot passion?  I hope so, because I remember her fondly.

Chapter Thirty
A Columbus Bridal Faire:
Strippers Molested?



One big promotion a group of us Chippendales did together was a bridal how in Columbus, Ohio, where we were to model tuxedos and other gentlemen’s evening wear.  I got to hook up with the American Chippendales Tour Group A, (there were four tour groups, A, B, C and D, two that toured the United States only and two that toured abroad, mostly in Europe.)  I was the only one flown in from Los Angeles to do the show, mostly for my modeling and banter skills, and for the fact that I was in the calendar, as most of these guys weren’t, except for Victor, a long-time Chippendale who traveled with the tour group with his wife.

The bridal show started innocently enough…I think these guys were getting a kick out of the fact that they weren’t having to put on their usual beefcake type of show.  But I knew what these women really wanted, so when my turn came to do my runway walk, I ended it with a Chippendale-like flash opening of my tuxedo jacket and a hip thrust.  The audience broke out into a cheer.  The rest of the guys followed suit with the same.  These women had shown up knowing that the Chippendales were doing the modeling, so they were expecting a little something more than your average runway show.  




After the bridal show, there was a fair amount of calendar signing and picture taking, especially when I came out in my collar, cuffs and spandex pants. Because we wouldn’t be in their town again for quite some time, this was the next best thing to a bachelorette party for a lot of these gals.  We had fun, but after a hard afternoon’s work, we all had a flight to catch…in about four hours.

Victor had an idea…he knew a gal that worked at “The Dollhouse,” a famous Columbus, Ohio gentlemen’s club.  It was down near the airport, and he figured that would be a great place for us to grab a bite to eat.  A strip club, I thought!  Now, believe it or not, I had never been to a women’s strip club before in my entire life.  This promised to be something interesting indeed. 

We arrived at The DollHouse, and it was everything I had ever imagined and more—drop dead gorgeous women everywhere, scantily clad, most with no tops. The ones on stage stripped down to nothing at all.  I got such a boner so fast it was ridiculous.  No wonder these types of places were so popular with us men!  Every waitress calling us “sweetie pie” and “dear,” flirting with us like crazy…of course it didn’t hurt that they knew we were a group of Chippendales, I suppose, but I had never been treated this way by waitresses…caressing my neck and tousling my hair.




I tell you, as a first-timer at a women’s strip club, there were some marked differences that really struck me, between a women’s strip club and men’s strip club such as Chippendales.  At Chippendales, it was the men who were ultimately in control, although we allow the women to run rampant at our club.  In a women’s strip club, the men were all about ogling the women, and the women pretended to be in control, but there were bouncers there who were necessary to maintain decorum.  Mostly, though, you feel sorry for the girls who work there at the strip clubs, many of whom exhibit signs of being on drugs.  As far as I knew, none of the Chippendales dancers were drug users, other than a few steroids here and there.  The most evident difference between the jobs, though, would be the relative enjoyment of the profession.  Chippendales ENJOY their jobs, but, by contrast, you can tell, that underneath it all, these girls really don’t want to be there…or maybe you just know it instinctively.  That’s just the difference between men and women, right?   Women strippers rarely enjoy their jobs, but male strippers, are kids in a candystore.

One other thing I remembered about women strippers was that many of them had been molested by males when they were kids—many by friends or family members.  Now you’d think this would be different from male strippers, but I myself had been molested by two different girls when I was a




kid.  I can tell you that after realizing this, I had asked around among my closer friends at Chippendales, and, astonishingly enough, three of the five guys I talked to
to being molested by female members of their families when they were children or young teens.  Counting me, that was four out of six.  Evidently, being a stripper is often predicated by being molested by the opposite sex as a kid, across the board—both male and female strippers.  Amazing, right?

Anyway, by the time we were ready to leave, I must have had about eight Tanqueray and tonics there, so I was really flying by the time we had to be off to the airport and flying.

When we got to the airport, Victor did some haggling and managed to trade eight signed Chippendales calendars for an upgrade for us all to FIRST CLASS.  What a coup!  I continued my Tanq&Tonic bender halfway through the flight, until I remembered that I would have to drive my car when I got to the airport.  From then on, I just scarfed free shrimp cocktails until we landed, thinking all the while about all the sexy girls I’d met at The DollHouse.  I was still so turned on by their spectacle of hours earlier, that as I was driving home, I masturbated to orgasm in my own driver’s seat.  I hope no trucks were driving by.

Marlo: A Delightful Connection


Another great memory I have of doing promotions came from Evansville, Indiana, when I met my friend, Marlo Datzman.  I was doing a “solo” promotion at a books and calendars store at the Eastland Mall in Evansville, and it was on Friday the 13
, I recall, because there were these two beauties I met, Marlo and Gina, who were partying that day already to celebrate the Friday the 13
…any excuse for a party, right?  I met, perhaps, five hundred women at this calendar-signing, so it was not a mob scene, but it was certainly busy, as these things go.  It is more fun, frankly, when you’re mobbed all day long, because the time goes by faster—though you’re more exhausted at day’s end just from being “on” all day long.  By the end of the day, I was plenty tired enough, from having “serviced” all five hundred women by myself, without another Chippendale sidekick to play off of with the banter.

At the end of the day, I returned to my hotel room, exhausted.  I was just laying on the bed, too tired to remove my spandex trousers, when suddenly, out of the blue, there came a dainty little ‘knock-knock-knock’ at the door.  I was not expecting anybody, so I assumed it was some hotel personnel wanting to turn down the sheets or something.  When I opened the




door, I was surprised to see a beautiful young gal, 5’2” and slim, perhaps 20 or so and dressed conservatively, who was standing there, obviously nervous and uncomfortable. 

“Hi…can I help you?” I said quizzically. The girl replies, “Um, hi…I met you today at the calendar signing.”  I quickly remembered her and her friend Gina (who was not with her now) from the other 498 or so women I’d met, because we had spoken at length in the store, and she had hung around to talk to me when there were lulls in the crowd.  “Oh, yeah!  What was your name again?”  “Marlo,” she said.  “Well, do you want to come in, Marlo?” “Okay,” she says. 

Marlo enters my hotel suite and we struck up a conversation, about the Chippendales promotion that day, mostly, and we continued our conversation from earlier in the day.   I asked her how she found my hotel room, and she tells me it was simple—she just asked the store owner where I was staying, then asked the front desk which room the Chippendale was in.  Impressive! Cute, smart
a go-getter! So then Marlo starts asking me whether, as a Chippendale, women are throwing themselves at me a lot, and I know where that is leading to…this girl is fixing to do just that—throw herself at me!  So, I lied and said, no, women don’t actually throw themselves at us all that often, and within a minute, Marlo and I are kissing




on the bed.  She starts to take off her cute little cashmere sweater, and I got no resistance to where this was leading to.  Matter of fact, Marlo did most of the work disrobing both of us.  Before I knew it, I was enjoying some of the best lovemaking I have ever had.

The next morning, Marlo drove me to the airport to catch my flight.  It was snowing, practically a blizzard, but we still made it there in her little white Ford Escort.  Still in a skirt from the night before, Marlo was feeling plenty under-dressed, I recall, but she looked fantastic to me.  She  saw me off to the gate and we said our goodbyes, hopeful to see each other once again.  Marlo and I really connected on a basic, spiritual level, and I knew I was going to call her, and I really and truly hoped that I
see her again…I just hadn’t any idea when that might be. 

As luck would have it, about six weeks later, I was booked to do another solo promotion in the region, this time, in Vincent, Indiana.  I called Marlo to tell her I’d be out again in her area, and we planned to meet at the gig I was doing, this time at a “sensual gifts” store.  The day of the promotion, I remember I was looking forward to at least one familiar face.  It was a nice feeling…like looking forward to a really special prize in the bottom of your cereal box.  I also recall the store—the walls were filled with lingerie for both men and women. The men’s side, I recall, had such things




as a G-string with a fuzzy, gray elephant’s face and trunk for the penis to go into.  Funny, the things you remember, isn’t it?

So all day, I was eagerly awaiting Marlo’s arrival, but not wanting to mention it or show it to the other gals whom I was entertaining with the usual calendar-signing banter.  I was so happy when, at long last, her smiling face suddenly appeared just inside the door.  “MARLO!” I cried out happily.  “GREG!” she replied, and ran straight into my awaiting arms.  It was like there had been no time passed since our last meeting.  Luckily, it was nearing the end of the day, so I didn’t have to wait too long to be with her.  Come 6 PM, and I was off the clock…finally.  Not that I hadn’t enjoyed the promotion, but I was really looking forward to being with Marlo.  This was a real treat for me—a friend to spend the otherwise lonely evening with.  

The shopkeeper paid me, and we said goodbye…then Marlo drove the both of us to my hotel.  Now I should tell you that the shop owners, in addition to paying the appearance fee, are responsible for booking and paying for the lodgings and usually the meals for the Chippendale appearing at their store, and the lady owning this shop had selected the nicest hotel in town for me, complete with room service and everything.  Grateful for the hospitality, Marlo and I decided to order up champagne and dinner from room service.  We polished off one bottle with dinner, then sent down for




another bottle after that…and later, still another bottle.  (I later heard that the shopkeeper was pissed at my “excess” but I didn’t care.)  It was a magical evening.  Marlo and I made love and talked until the wee hours of the morning.

I still have fond memories of Marlo to this day, but, although we’ve talked on the phone, I have not yet seen her again.  She had planned to come out and visit me in Huntington Beach, California a few years later, but I got spooked and told her not to come.  What an idiot I was.  I still consider Marlo to be one of the few gals that were “fish that got away.”  I finally

located her recently at the writing of this book just to get her permission to use her real name, and she is doing
.  She’s married,
of course
, still slim and cute as a button after two beautiful kids. 
Her husband is a great guy though, so I am very happy for her.

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