Backstage At Chippendales (11 page)

Chapter

Thirty-Two

Oscar, the Reluctant Chippendale

Oscar was like the mascot of the Chippendales nightclub.  He was the sole Chippendales stage-hand, and also the waiter for the dancers.  When I say that he was the waiter for the dancers, I mean that, before the show anyway, he would go to the bar and get drinks for the dancers backstage.  Oscar was an Hispanic fellow, slim, good-looking, but spoke only broken English.  He always had a smile on his face, and handled all the Chippendales shenanigans with good nature and aplomb.  The dancers all got to like him and relied upon him for their costumes and stage props.  Oscar was indispensable.  Even so, you got the feeling that they were paying him peanuts. 

It was often said that Oscar should be in the show, but Oscar always shrugged this off with an embarrassed grin. He truly did not have the demeanor to be a Chippendale.  Regardless, the management eventually convinced Oscar to start wearing the Chippendales collar, cuffs and spandex pants around the club, as he was so often hustling about and had to pass by in front of the ladies quite a bit.  The Chippendales “costume” took a bit of

adjustment for Oscar, but it wasn’t the costume itself that was the biggest change—all of the sudden, ladies were accosting him and expecting him to flirt around like the regular hosts would do.  What’s more, his lack of command of the English language was actually a “turn on” for a lot of the women!  Poor Oscar! What had he gotten himself into?!?

About six months or so later, after Oscar had learned to handle the occasional pat-down and grope, the dancers began petitioning the owner to have Oscar put into the show in his own number—all unbeknownst to Oscar, of course. 

One day, the owner, Steve Bannerjee, pretty much just told Oscar, rather than asking him, that Oscar was going to be put into the show as a dancer. Oscar HAD to comply.  Poor, shy Oscar was going to be a full-fledged Chippendale dancer!  We had ‘turned him out’!

After several weeks of practice at the dance studio, Oscar was finally ready…well, as ready as he was going to be, anyway.  His debut was a Saturday night, and all the “regulars” had shown up to cheer him on.  Matter of fact, even the order of the acts was secretly announced to the crowd, so that everybody knew when to expect Oscar’s act.  But it became obvious to all, when, after the act prior to Oscar’s finished, the crowd began to chant

“Oscar! Oscar! Oscar! Oscar!!!”  I knew how much pressure the poor guy was under, and that couldn’t be making it any easier. 

Now luckily for Oscar, his act was solo, so there were no other Chippendales by his side to make it evident to all if and when he messed up the choreography.  His set was a Hispanic love song, wherein he wore his Chippendales collar and cuffs, along with a black jacket with tear-away pants.  He held a red rose in his hand the whole time, setting it down on a chair to peel off the clothing.  Finally, Oscar was wearing only a red Speedo undergarment, with collar and cuffs, and holding the red rose, which he threw out into the audience at the end.  Throughout the act, the cheers of “Oscar! Oscar!” barely even subsided.  Oscar looked terribly nervous through it all, but he went up there and by golly, he did his stuff.  When he was finished, you should have seen the fool grin on this boy’s face as he came down the stage steps—it was pride, and relief at the same time.  Yes, the reluctant Oscar was a full-fledged Chippendale, at last.

         You could always tell which guys at Chippendales did steroids…even how much and which kind—bulking or cutting.  Steve Gears was the guy at Chippendales who a lot of guys bought their steroids from, and, it turns out, a good friend of mine, but not for that reason—I never did a lot of steroids—I was a surfer body, lean.  Steve was always going about asking everybody, “hey, let me know if you need anything to
supplement
your workout with.”  But, yes, Steve did sell me my first steroids--methyltestosterone pills.  Now methyltestosterone is not a true steroid, but rather just a synthetic form of the normal male hormone, testosterone, but still, it was a leap into bottom level of the world of steroids—and a quantum leap for me, as I was not a user of any drugs, not even marijuana.  Now Steve, the stupid bastard, didn’t even tell me that they’d give me what’s called “bitch tits” which was where the human body tries to go through homeostasis (trying to keep all levels of hormones equal) and because there was higher levels of the hormone testosterone, ups its production of estrogen, (yes, the male body produces small amounts of estrogen, just as the female body produces small amounts of testosterone). Due to this upping of estrogen production, the male body

begins to grow its breast tissue a bit.  What combats this is taking Nolvadex, which blocks the production of estrogen, which Steve finally gave to me once it became apparent that I was getting a little bit of ‘bitch tits’ but dammit, the fool should have given it to me along with the methyltestosterone to begin with. 

What else Steve didn’t warn me of is that the methyltestosterone would tend to make me irritable and grouchy, and since I had previously been a very nice and laid back individual, it was quite a personality change for me.  Although outwardly, for the most part, I still acted very laid back, the truth was, on the inside I was feeling quite testy and grouchy…easily angered.  Now the objective of the drug was to make me work out harder, but it didn’t—I was already working out as hard as I possibly could. So in the end, methyltestosterone was a waste of my time.  I needed the hard stuff to get bigger, so he moved me up to Primobolan and Deca-Durabolan (true steroids, not just hormones), but this stuff came in injectable form, so I had to learn how to inject myself with the stuff.  This was not as easy as it sounds, for I had no experience ever injecting myself with anything—only giving blood at the Red Cross or the doctors office.  I was just a wuss, though, when it came to needles—still am; they just creep me out.  I have to look away and tap my foot nervously even today, just to give blood.

The first time I tried true steroids (Deca Durabolin, aka “Deca” and Primobolan, aka “Primo”), Steve had me inject the stuff into my right shoulder muscle while I was in the upstairs bedroom of his house.  I sat on the bed, and after much wincing and plenty of cajoling on his part, I finally jabbed the needle in one fell swoop maybe a half an inch into my right shoulder—not far enough for intramuscular injection standards.  YIKES!  I was just plain freaked out over the whole thing.  Shaking my half-dizzy head, I said “I’m just not up to this, Steve, why don’t you get me some pills?”  Steve explained that intramuscular injections are more potent, and that this was all he could get his hands on anyway.  So there I was, sitting on the bed with a syringe stuck hanging out of my arm, and I was too afraid to stick the needle in any farther, fearing I’d hit the bone or something…but the fact of the matter was that I had to press the needle in deeper, lest I get what Steve called a “raspberry” atop my skin (a red, bulbous ball of the steroid juice, just under the skin).  I winced some more and, grimacing like a big baby, managed to shove the syringe in about a quarter inch further.   That would have to do.  I then had a second awful task to muster the courage for—pressing the plunger down thereby injecting the steroid into my body.  Shaking my head in anticipated pain, I pressed lightly on the plunger—no dice—it didn’t budge.  “How come it won’t go in?” I asked, baffled.  “This

steroid is based in oil,” explains Steve, “the molecules are bigger and so it takes a lot more pressure to get it through the tiny needle and into your arm.”   So with that, knowing I was almost ‘home’ on this deal, I grabbed the spike (bodybuilders call their syringes “spikes”) tightly, then slowly but surely injected the juice (bodybuilders call steroids “juice”) into my arm.  It stung a bit, but not as much as I had anticipated.   Soon the plunger was all the way down.   I had done it!  Eureka!   I felt light-headed from the combination of fear and giddy excitement of it all, but otherwise, I was okay.  Steve explained to me that I’d have to work out really hard at least three days a week, and that I could go with him as his guest at his gym.  Steve kept to his word on that. 

             
Steve and I would work out three days a week at an upscale gym he belonged to in Buena Park, California.  One day, Steve had some new “stuff” for me to try in order to “supplement my workout.”   It was called Equipoise.  (If the “Equi” in Equipoise makes it sound like its for horses…you’d be right…it is.)  He wanted me to inject it right there in the bathroom of the gymnasium locker room…then he had second thoughts when I told him that I still whined and whimpered for some ten minutes while trying to inject myself at home.   Steve said he would inject me, then, and we headed off to a large bathroom stall…together.  Now two pairs of

men's legs sticking out from under the door was already going to look sort of suspect, so we had to be quick.  A bit nervous himself, Steve got out the syringe from his bag, then, fumbling, promptly dropped it onto the floor.  The syringe then quickly rolled out from the bathroom stall and into the main part of the bathroom!  Steve and I looked at each other for a moment, our eyes bulging out with fear of being caught, then Steve lunged out of the stall and swiped the needle up off of the tile.   Only then did he look around, and thankfully, no one had witnessed the faux pas.   Re-entering the stall, Steve pulled the syringe out of its protective casing, then plunged the tip into the Equipoise vial, then pulled out about 1-1/2 CC’s of the juice.  I pulled my sleeve up to expose my left shoulder, but Steve said that he’d just inject me in the buttock to avoid any loud whining on my part.  Good idea, I thought…I was a whiner.  I pulled down my gym shorts and Steve popped the needle into my unsuspecting butt cheek before I knew what was happening or had time to bitch about it.  As he pressed the heavy liquid into me, I began to get light-headed, and as soon as he was done, I had to sit down on the toilet.  Steve became understandably alarmed as I continued to get even more woozy—I practically feinted as I sat down on the toilet.  “What’s happening to me?” I asked, rather alarmed at the colors that were spinning before my eyes.  Stammering, he tells me “Jeez, Greg, you’re body

must be so pure from never doing any drugs that the Equipoise is a shock to your system.”  Eventually, I came back to the world, but Steve told me that I was in the bathroom stall for about ten minutes.  He was relieved as all hell, and confessed to me that he’d never seen anybody react that way, and moreover, that he had been considering calling the paramedics.   No need now, and Steve and I proceeded to head out to the weight room.  I had a great workout—I felt like Superman. It wasn’t till afterwards that Steve told me that the Superman complex was probably all in my head—the steroids only help your body repair faster once you’re done working out.  On the other hand, steroids do increase your aggression level, just like the synthetic testosterone, and maybe my quick (though alarming) first reaction to them was an indicator of their quick reaction across-the-board in my (up till then) fairly pristine body.

In the end, after a couple of months or so, the Primobolan and Deca-Durabolin did the trick. I gained about 20 pounds of pure, lean muscle and I looked great!  Steve had told me, “when you take this, you’ll be telling people ‘hey LOOK AT MY NEW BODY.’” (said in Schwarzzeneggeresque tone). Boy he wasn’t kidding.  And the guys at the club began to notice pretty soon, and the ones who didn’t ‘juice’ (take steroids) were of course the most critical. But I got even MORE attention from the ladies and made

even more money from tips than ever before.  I can say, in retrospect, though, that I regret having taken them, because they messed up my body’s natural hormone levels, and they’ve never been the same since.

The only other thing I have to say about steroids is that, to my knowledge, Chippendales management never directly acted to procure or distribute steroids among its workers…although they had to know that it was going on.  But you were never supposed to talk openly about steroids at Chippendales—that was a no no.  You couldn’t even say the word “Steroid” to the owner, Steve Bannerjee. If you did, he’d just frown, then say he didn’t know what the Chippendales did in their spare time.

Chapter

Thirty-Four

    What You NEVER Talked About

The biggest “no-no” to
ever
talk about (to ANYONE) was how the owner, Steve Bannerjee, had surely had his partner Nick De Noia killed some years earlier in order to take over the Chippendales business…a crime which he was finally convicted of several years back (in 2000, I think) and was polite enough to hang himself in his cell
when
the verdict came in. Back then, everyone KNEW he’d had the guy killed, its just that no one could prove it at the time—and you were NEVER supposed to talk about THAT. 
Everyone just kind of knew that surely he had had the job done, but that nobody could prove it at the time I was working there. And it was a big taboo to ever speak of it.